ffcLUABLE  WORKS 

PUBLISHED    BY 

THE   AMERICAN  STATIONERS    COMPANY, 

BOSTON. 


I. 


The  Life  and  Writings  of  George  Washington,  with  Notes 
and  Illustrations  by  JARED  SPARKS.  In  12vols.  royal  8vo. 
This  national  work  will  be  completed  early  in  May 
next.  The  first  volume  is  now  in  press,  and  will  be  ex 
pressly  devoted  to  a  Biography  of  Washington,  written 
with  reference  to  his  personal  acts  and  character  ;  and 
will  be'beautifully  embellished  with  three  new  Portraits  — 
one  of  Mrs.  Washington,  taken  the  year  she  was  married  — 
one  taken  by  Stuart  when  she  was  60,  and  one  of  Wash 
ington,  taken  when  he  was  40  years  old. 
II. 


Orations  and  Speeches  of  Edward  Everett,  Governor  of  Mas 
sachusetts,  in  one  volume,  royal  octavo  ;  comprising  all  his 
Orations  from  1823  to  1836. 
III. 


BY    MRS.    FAKRAR,    OF    CAMBRIDGE. 

O^This  popular  work  has  already  run  through  five  editions 
in  the  space  of  three  months.  It  is  written  with  great 
originality  and  independence,  and  has  received  the  highest 
praise  from  the  most  discriminating  judges.  It  is  its  pur 
pose  to  enter  into  details  which  are  not  to  be  found  in  the 
longer  and  graver  treatises  on  religion  and  morals  ;  and 
to  point  out  the  means  of  acquiring  those  lesser  graces  of 
character  and  manners,  which  adorn  and  .set  off  to  the 
best  advantage  the  more  solid  qualities.  Among  numer 
ous  testimonials  to  its  value,  we  select  the  following  : 

"I  consider  the  Young  Ladies'1  Friend  a  Manual  of  Christian  politeness. 
It  inculcates  a  constant  regard  to  the  happiness  of  others  and  points  out  the 
means  to  promote  it."  —  Rev.  Professor  Norton. 

"  I  have  never  seen  so  sensihle  and  so  useful  a  book.  It  ought  to  be  an 
indispensable  addition  to  every  family  library.  It  would  save  parents  a  great 
de;il  of  trouble,  and  young  people  (of  all  ages),  a  great  deal  of  mortification. 
The  book  is  invaluable."  —  JV.  P.  Willis,  Esq. 

a 


2     Works  published  by  the  Americ(j^ti$tationers  Co. 


IV. 


Transactions  and  Collections  of  the  American  Antiquarian 
Society.  Vol.  II.  Comprising  1.  Officers  of  the  Society 
for  1835-6.  2.  Memoir  of  Isaiah  Thomas,  L.L.D.,  first 
President  of  the  Society  ;  by  SAMUEL  IV1.  BURNSTDE,  Esq. 
3.  A  Synopsis  of  the  Indian  Tribes  of  North  America; 
by  ALBERT  GALLATIN,  L.L.D.  4.  An  Historical  Account 
of  the  Doings  and  Sufferings  of  the  Christian  Indians  of 
New  England  ;  by  DANIEL  GOOKIN.  5.  A  Description  of 
a  Leaden  Plate,  or  Medal,  found  near  the  Mouth  of  the 
Muskirignm,  in  the  State  of  Ohio;  by  DF.WITT  CLINTON, 
L.L.D.  6.  A  Description  of  the  Ruins  of  Copan,  in  Central 
America;  by  Col.  JUAN  GALINDO.  7.  A  Letter  from  the 
Rev.  ADAM  CLARKE,  D.D.,  to  PETER  S.  DUFONCE^U,  L.L.D. 
8.  Obituary  Notice  of  CHRISTOPHER  BALDWIN,  Esq.  late 
Librarian  of  the  Society  ;  by  JOHN  DAVIS,  L.L.D.  9. 
Catalogue  of  the  Members  of  the  Society. 

V. 


The  Law  of  Patents  for  Inventions  ;  including  the  Remedies 
and  Legal  Proceedings  in  relation  to  Patent  Rights  ;  by 
WILLARD  PHILLIPS. 

VI. 


Familiar  Letters  on  Public  Characters  and  Public  Events,  from 
the  Peace  of  1783  to  the  Peace  of  1815.  A  new  edition 
enlarged  ;  by  the  Hon.  WILLIAM  SULLIVAN. 

(£/**  This  interesting  work  is  too  well  known  to  require 
comment. 

VII. 

5t,^©^Wia^^  ©M  ^©W^M©^ 

The  Introductory  Discourse,  and  the  Lectures  delivered  before 
the  American  Institute  of  Instruction,  at  its  different  meet 
ings.  4  vols.  8vo. 

VIII. 


Complete  sets  of  the  Collections  of  the  Massachusetts  His 
torical  Society,  in  25  vols.  8vo.,  can  now  be  furnished. 
Also  any  of  the  volumes  separately. 


VALUABLE  SCHOOL  BOOKS. 

THE  AMERICAN  STATIONERS  COMPANY  invite  the  attention  of  Teachers 
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1.  Emerson's  North  American  Arithmetics — Parts  I.  II.  and  III. 

2.  Emerson's  First,  Second,  and  Third  Class  Reading  Books. 

3.  Emerson's  National  Spelling  Books— the  Old  and  the  New. 

4.  Emerson's  Introduction  to  the  National  Spelling  Book. 

5.  Emerson's  Progressive  Primer,  with  beautiful  (Juts. 

6.  GoodricrTs  History  of  the  United  States,  improved,  60th  edition. 

7.  Goodrich's  Questions  to  do. 

8.  Emerson's  Questions  and  Supplement  to  do. 

9.  TheChild's  History  of  the  United  States,  with  Engravings. 

10.  Bailey's  First  Lessons  in  Algebra,  and  Key  to  do. 

11.  Bailey's  Bakewell's  Conversations  on  Philosophy. 

12.  Lempriere's  Classical  Dictionary,  expurgated  edition. 

13.  Vose's  Compendium  of  Astronomy. 

14.  Balbi's  Universal  Geography  and  Atlas,  for  High  Schools. 

15.  American  Common  Place  Book  of  Prose. 

16.  American  Common  Place  Book  of  Poetry. 

17.  Cleveland's  First  Lessons  in  Latin,  on  a  new  plan. 

18.  Walker's  Latin  Reader,  with  a  free  interlinear  translation. 

19.  Wanostrocht's  French  Grammar,  24th  edition. 

20.  Bossut's  French  Word  and  Phrase  Book. 

21.  La  Bagatelle,  in  French,  for  Beginners. 

22.  Voltaire's  Charles  XI  I.,  in  French,  with  English  Njtes. 

23.  Hentz's  Classical  French   Reader. 

24.  Whelpley's  Cornpend  of  History. 

25.  Nichols's  Elements  of  Natural  Theology. 

26.  Ray's  Conversations  on  Animal  Economy. 

27.  Webber's  English  Grammar,  for  Academies  and  High  Schoojs. 

28.  Parley's  Bible  Geography,  for  Common  and  Sabbath  Schools. 

29.  Worcester's  First  Lessons  in  Astronomy. 

30.  The  Juvenile  Speaker. 

31.  Newman's  Practical  System  of  Rhetoric. 

32.  Davies's  Bourdon's  Algebra. 

33.  Davies's  Legendre's  Geometry  and  Trigonometry. 

34.  Davies's  Surveying.  /  T,T    <.  T>  •».»». 

35.  Davies's  Descriptive  Geometry.  V  Westt?n°flnt  Mathe- 

36.  Davies's  Shadows  and  Linear  Perspective. 

37.  Davies's  Analytical  Geometry. 

38.  M.msfield's  Political  Grammar. 

39.  Pinnock's  Goldsmith's  History  of  England. 

40.  Pinnock's  Goldsmith's  History  of  Rome. 

41.  Pinnock's  Goldsmith's  History  of  Greece, 

42.  The  Scientific  Class  Book. 


f  We 


43.  Parley's  Bible  Geography,  with  Engravings. 

44.  Nichols's  Elements  of  Natural  Theology,  with  Engravings. 

45.  Ray's  Conversations  on  Animal  Economy. 

46.  The  Young  Florist,  or  Conversations  on  Natural  History. 

47.  Parley's  Bible  Stories,  with  Engravings. 

48.  Parley's  Book  of  Poetry. 

49.  The  New  Missionary  Gazetteer,  with  Engravings. 

50.  Parley's  Ornithology,  with  numerous  Engravings. 


WORKS  IN  PREPARATION,  AND  IN  PRESS, 

i. 

MOUNT  VERNON  PAPERS. 

Mount  Vtrnon  Papers;  being  a  Selection  from  the  Unpub 
lished  Manuscripts  preserved  and  left  by  GEORGE  WASH 
INGTON;  consisting  of  Letters  to  him  from  the  principal 
Officers  of  the  Army,  Members  of  the  Old  Congress, 
Governors  of  the  States,  and  other  eminent  persons  during 
the  Revolution ;  and  also  Private  and  Official  Letters, 
Cabinet  Papers,  Reports,  and  Memoirs,  while  he  was 
President  of  the  qnited  States.  Selected  and  arranged 
by  JARED  SPARKS.  In  4  vols.  8vo. 

II. 
NORTON'S  EVIDENCES. 

The  Evidences  of  the  Genuineness  of  the  Gospels.  By  AN 
DREWS  NORTON,  late  Dexter  Professor  of  Sacred  Litera 
ture  at  the  University  in  Cambridge,  Mass.  Vol.  I.  8vo. 
To  be  published  the  beginning  of  March. 

Q^3  This  volume  forms  an  independent  work  in  itself; 
treating  of  the  direct  historical  evidence. 

III. 
COMPARATIVE  VIEW  OF  POETRY. 

A  Comparative  View  of  Popular  Poetry,  in  its  connexion 
with  the  Manners  and  Intellectual  Character  of  Different 
Nations,  considered  chiefly  in  their  present  state  ;  with 
Specimens.  In  one  volume,  post  octavo. 

IV. 
PICKERING'S  VOCABULARY. 

A  Vocabulary,  or  Collection  of  Words  and  Phrases  which 
have  been  supposed  to  be  peculiar  to  the  United  States  of 
North  America;  by  JOHN  PICKERING.  A  new  edition. 


SCHOOL  BOOKS. 

The  American  Stationers  Company  are  engaged  in  the 
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'.      JOHN  B.  RUSSELL,  No.  19  School  Street,  Boston. 


TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 


BY 


NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 


BOSTON: 
AMERICAN  STATIONERS  CO 

JOHN    B.    RUSSELL. 

1837. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1837,  by  the  American 
Stationers  Company  in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of 
Massachusetts. 


FREEMAN     AND      BOLLES 

Printers Washington  Street. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

The  Gray  Champion, 11 

Sunday  at  Home, 25 

The  Wedding  Knell, 37 

The  Minister's  Black  Veil,      . 53 

The  May-Pole  of  Merry  Mount,        78 

The  Gentle  Boy, 97 

Mr.  Higginbotham's  Catastrophe, 149 

Little  Anne's  Ramble, 171 

Wakefield, 185 

A  Rill  from  the  Town  Pump, 201 

The  Great  Carbuncle,    . 213 

The  Prophetic  Pictures, 237 

David  Swan, 261 

Sights  from  a  Steeple, 273 

The  Hollow  of  the  Three  Hills, 285 

The  Vision  of  the  Fountain 295 

Fancy's  Show  Box, 307 

Dr.  Heidegger's  Experiment, 319 


THE    GRAY    CHAMPION. 


THE    GRAY    CHAMPION 


THERE  was  once  a  time  when  New  England  groan 
ed  under  the  actual  pressure  of  heavier  wrongs,  than 
those  threatened  ones  which  brought  on  the  Revolu 
tion.  James  II.,  the  bigoted  successor  of  Charles  the 
Voluptuous,  had  annulled  the  charters  of  all  the  colo 
nies,  and  sent  a  harsh  and  unprincipled  soldier  to  take 
away  our  liberties  and  endanger  our  religion.  The 
administration  of  Sir  Edmund  A'ndros  lacked  scarcely 
a  single  characteristic  of  tyranny  :  a  Governor  and 
Council,  holding  office  from  the  King,  and  wholly 
independent  of  the  country ;  laws  made  and  taxes  lev 
ied  without  concurrence  of  the  people,  immediate  or 
by  their  representatives  ;  the  rights  of  private  citizens 
violated,  and  the  titles  of  all  landed  property  declared 
void  ;  the  voice  of  complaint  stifled  by  restrictions  on 
the  press ;  and  finally,  disaffection  overawed  by  the  first 
band  of  mercenary  troops  that  ever  marched  on  our 
free  soil.  For  two  years  our  ancestors  were  kept  in 


12  THE      GRAY      CHAMPION. 

sullen  submission,  by  that  filial  love  which  had  invari 
ably  secured  their  allegiance  to  the  mother  country, 
whether  its  head  chanced  to  be  a  Parliament,  Protector, 
or  popish  Monarch.  Till  these  evil  times,  however, 
such  allegiance  had  been  merely  nominal,  and  the  co 
lonists  had  ruled  themselves,  enjoying  far  more  free 
dom,  than  is  even  yet  the  privilege  of  the  native  sub 
jects  of  Great  Britain. 

At  length,  a  rumor  reached  our  shores,  that  the 
Prince  of  Orange  had  ventured  on  an  enterprise,  the 
success  of  which  would  be  the  triumph  of  civil  and 
religious  rights  and  the  salvation  of  New  England.  It 
was  but  a  doubtful  whisper ;  it  might  be  false,  or  the 
attempt  might  fail ;  and,  in  either  case,  the  man,  that 
stirred  against  King  James,  would  lose  his  head.  Still 
the  intelligence  produced  a  marked  effect.  The  peo 
ple  smiled  mysteriously  in  the  streets,  and  threw  bold 
glances  at  their  oppressors ;  while,  far  and  wide,  there 
was  a  subdued  and  silent  agitation,  as  if  the  slightest 
signal  would  rouse  the  whole  land  from  its  sluggish 
despondency.  Aware  of  their  danger,  the  rulers  re 
solved  to  avert  it  by  an  imposing  display  of  strength, 
and  perhaps  to  confirm  their  despotism  by  yet  harsher 
measures.  One  afternoon  in  April,  1689,  Sir  Edmund 
Andros  and  his  favorite  councillors,  being  warm  with 
wine,  assembled  the  red-coats  of  the  Governor's  Guard, 
and  made  their  appearance  in  the  streets  of  Boston. 
The  sun  was  near  setting  when  the  march  commenced. 

The  roll  of  the  drum,  at  that  unquiet  crisis,  seemed 


THE     GRAY     CHAMPION.  13 

to  go  through  the  streets,  less  as  the  martial  music  of 
the  soldiers,  than  as  a  muster-call  to  the  inhabitants 
themselves.  A  multitude,  by  various  avenues,  assem 
bled  in  King-street,  which  was  destined  to  be  the  scene, 
nearly  a  century  afterwards,  of  another  encounter  be 
tween  the  troops  of  Britain,  and  a  people  struggling 
against  her  tyranny.  Though  more  than  sixty  years 
had  elapsed,  since  the  Pilgrims  came,  this  crowd  of 
their  descendants  still  showed  the  strong  and  sombre 
features  of  their  character,  perhaps  more  strikingly  in 
such  a  stern  emergency  than  on  happier  occasions. 
There  was  the  sober  garb,  the  general  severity  of  mien, 
the  gloomy  but  undismayed  expression,  the  scriptural 
forms  of  speech,  and  the  confidence  in  Heaven's  bles 
sing  on  a  righteous  cause,  which  would  have  marked 
a  band  of  the  original  Puritans,  when  threatened  by 
some  peril  of  the  wilderness.  Indeed,  it  was  not  yet 
time  for  the  old  spirit  to  be  extinct;  since  there  were 
men  in  the  street,  that  day,  who  had  worshiped  there 
beneath  the  trees,  before  a  house  was  reared  to  the 
God,  for  whom  they  had  become  exiles.  Old  soldiers 
of  the  Parliament  were  here  too,  smiling  grimly  at  the 
thought,  that  their  aged  arms  might  strike  another  blow 
against  the  house  of  Stuart.  Here  also,  were  the  vet 
erans  of  King  Phillip's  war,  who  had  burnt  villages  and 
slaughtered  young  and  old,  with  pious  fierceness,  while 
the  godly  souls  throughout  the  land  were  helping  them 
with  prayer.  Several  ministers  were  scattered  among 
the  crowd,  which,  unlike  all  other  mobs,  regarded 


14  THE     GRAY     CHAMPION. 

them  with  such  reverence,  as  if  there  were  sanctity  in 
their  very  garments.  These  holy  men  exerted  their 
influence  to  quiet  the  people,  but  not  to  disperse  them. 
Meantime,  the  purpose  of  the  Governor,  in  disturbing 
the  peace  of  the  town,  at  a  period  when  the  slightest 
commotion  might  throw  the  country  into  a  ferment, 
was  almost  the  universal  subject  of  inquiry,  and  vari 
ously  explained. 

'  Satan  will  strike  his  master-stroke  presently,'  cried 
some,  '  because  he  knoweth  that  his  time  is  short.  All 
our  godly  pastors  are  to  be  dragged  to  prison  !  We 
shall  see  them  at  a  Smithfield  fire  in  King-street !' 

Hereupon,  the  people  of  each  parish  gathered  closer 
round  their  minister,  who  looked  calmly  upwards  and 
assumed  a  more  apostolic  dignity,  as  well  befitted  a 
candidate  for  the  highest  honor  of  his  profession,  the 
crown  of  martyrdom.  It  was  actually  fancied,  at  that 
period,  that  New  England  might  have  a  John  Rogers 
of  her  own,  to  take  the  place  of  that  worthy  in  the 
Primer. 

'  The  Pope  of  Rome  has  given  orders  for  a  new  St. 
Bartholomew !'  cried  others.  '  We  are  to  be  massa 
cred,  man  and  male  child  !' 

Neither  was  this  rumor  wholly  discredited,  although 
the  wiser  class  believed  the  Governor's  object  some 
what  less  atrocious.  His  predecessor  under  the  old 
charter,  Bradstreet,  a  venerable  companion  of  the  first 
settlers,  was  known  to  be  in  town.  There  were  grounds 
for  conjecturing,  that  Sir  Edmund  Andros  intended, 


THE     GRAY     CHAMPION.  15 

at  once,  to  strike  terror,  by  a  parade  of  military  force, 
and  to  confound  the  opposite  faction,  by  possessing 
himself  of  their  chief. 

1  Stand  firm  for  the  old  charter  Governor !'  shouted 
the  crowd,  seizing  upon  the  idea.  *  The  good  old  Go 
vernor  Bradstreet !' 

While  this  cry  was  at  the  loudest,  the  people  were 
surprised  by  the  well  known  figure  of  Governor  Brad- 
street  himself,  a  patriarch  of  nearly  ninety,  who  ap 
peared  on  the  elevated  steps  of  a  door,  and,  with  char 
acteristic  mildness,  besought  them  to  submit  to  the 
constituted  authorities. 

'  My  children,'  concluded  this  venerable  person,  '  do 
nothing  rashly.  Cry  not  aloud,  but  pray  for  the  wel 
fare  of  New  England,  and  expect  patiently  what  the 
Lord  will  do  in  this  matter !' 

The  event  was  soon  to  be  decided.  All  this  time, 
the  roll  of  the  drum  had  been  approaching  through 
Cornhill,  louder  and  deeper,  till,  with  reverberations 
from  house  to  house,  and  the  regular  tramp  of  martial 
footsteps,  it  burst  into  the  street.  A  double  rank  of 
soldiers  made  their  appearance,  occupying  the  whole 
breadth  of  the  passage,  with  shouldered  matchlocks, 
and  matches  burning,  so  as  to  present  a  row  of  fires  in 
the  dusk.  Their  steady  march  was  like  the  progress 
of  a  machine,  that  would  roll  irresistibly  over  every 
thing  in  its  way.  Next,  moving  slowly,  with  a  con 
fused  clatter  of  hoofs  on  the  pavement,  rode  a  party  of 
mounted  gentlemen,  the  central  figure  being  Sir  Ed- 


16  THE     GRAY     CHAMPION. 

mund  Andros,  elderly,  but  erect  and  soldier-like. 
Those  around  him  were  his  favorite  councillors,  and 
the  bitterest  foes  of  New  England.  At  his  right  hand 
rode  Edward  Randolph,  our  arch  enemy,  that  *  blasted 
wretch,'  as  Cotton  Mather  calls  him,  who  achieved  the 
downfall  of  our  ancient  government,  and  was  followed 
with  a  sensible  curse,  through  life  and  to  his  grave. 
On  the  other  side  was  Bullivant,  scattering  jests  and 
mockery  as  he  rode  along.  Dudley  came  behind,  with 
a  downcast  look,  dreading,  as  well  he  might,  to  meet 
the  indignant  gaze  of  the  people,  who  beheld  him, 
their  only  countryman  by  birth,  among  the  oppressors 
of  his  native  land.  The  captain  of  a  frigate  in  the 
harbor,  and  two  or  three  civil  officers  under  the  Crown, 
were  also  there.  But  the  figure  which  most  attracted 
the  public  eye,  and  stirred  up  the  deepest  feeling,  was 
the  Episcopal  clergyman  of  King's  Chapel,  riding 
haughtily  among  the  magistrates  in  his  priestly  vest 
ments,  the  fitting  representative  of  prelacy  and  perse 
cution,  the  union  of  church  and  state,  and  all  those 
abominations  which  had  driven  the  Puritans  to  the 
wilderness.  Another  guard  of  soldiers,  in  double  rank, 
brought  up  the  rear. 

The  whole  scene  was  a  picture  of  the  condition  of 
New  England,  and  its  moral,  the  deformity  of  any 
government  that  does  not  grow  out  of  the  nature 
of  things  and  the  character  of  the  people.  On  one 
side  the  religious  multitude,  with  their  sad  visages  and 
dark  attire,  and  on  the  other,  the  group  of  despotic 


THE     GRAY     CHAMPION.  17 

rulers,  with  the  high  churchman  in  the  midst,  and  here 
and  there  a  crucifix  at  their  bosoms,  all  magnificently 
clad,  flushed  with  wine,  proud  of  unjust  authority,  and 
scoffing  at  the  universal  groan.  And  the  mercenary 
soldiers,  waiting  but  the  word  to  deluge  the  street  with 
blood,  showed  the  only  means  by  which  obedience 
could  be  secured. 

*  Oh !  Lord  of  Hosts,'  cried  a  voice  among  the  crowd, 
'  provide  a  Champion  for  thy  people !' 

This  ejaculation  was  loudly  uttered,  and  served  as  a 
herald's  cry,  to  introduce  a  remarkable  personage. 
The  crowd  had  rolled  back,  and  were  now  huddled  to 
gether  nearly  at  the  extremity  of  the  street,  while  the 
soldiers  had  advanced  no  more  than  a  third  of  its 
length.  The  intervening  space  was  empty — a  paved 
solitude,  between  lofty  edifices,  which  threw  almost  a 
twilight  shadow  over  it.  Suddenly,  there  was  seen  the 
figure  of  an  ancient  man,  who  seemed  to  have  emerged 
from  among  the  people,  and  was  walking  by  himself 
along  the  centre  of  the  street,  to  confront  the  armed 
band.  He  wore  the  old  Puritan  dress,  a  dark  cloak 
and  a  steeple-crowned  hat,  in  the  fashion  of  at  least 
fifty  years  before,  with  a  heavy  sword  upon  his  thigh, 
but  a  staff  in  his  hand,  to  assist  the  tremulous  gait  of 
age. 

When  at  some  distance  from  the  multitude,  the  old 
man  turned  slowly  round,  displaying  a  face  of  antique 
majesty,  rendered  doubly*  venerable  by  the  hoary  beard 
that  descended  on  his  breast.  He  made  a  gesture  at 


18  THE     GRAY     CHAMPION. 

once  of  encouragement  and  warning,  then  turned 
again,  and  resumed  his  way. 

'  Who  is  this  gray  patriarch  ?'  asked  the  young  men 
of  their  sires. 

'  Who  is  this  venerable  brother  ?'  asked  the  old  men 
among  themselves. 

But  none  could  make  reply.  The  fathers  of  the 
people,  those  of  fourscore  years  and  upwards,  were 
disturbed,  deeming  it  strange  that  they  should  forget 
one  of  such  evident  authority,  whom  they  must  have 
known  in  their  early  days,  the  associate  of  Winthrop 
and  all  the  old  Councillors,  giving  laws,  and  making 
prayers,  and  leading  them  against  the  savage.  The 
elderly  men  ought  to  have  remembered  him,  too,  with 
locks  as  gray  in  their  youth,  as  their  own  were  now. 
And  the  young  !  How  could  he  have  passed  so  utterly 
from  their  memories — that  hoary  sire,  the  relic  of  long- 
departed  times,  whose  awful  benediction  had  surely 
been  bestowed  on  their  uncovered  heads,  in  childhood  ? 

'  Whence  did  he  come  ?  What  is  his  purpose  ?  Who 
can  this  old  man  be  V  whispered  the  wondering  crowd. 

Meanwhile,  the  venerable  stranger,  staff  in  hand, 
was  pursuing  his  solitary  walk  along  the  centre  of  the 
street.  As  he  drew  near  the  advancing  soldiers,  and 
as  the  roll  of  their  drum  came  full  upon  his  ear,  the 
old  man  raised  himself  to  a  loftier  mien,  while  the  de 
crepitude  of  age  seemed  to  fall  from  his  shoulders, 
leaving  him  in  gray,  but  unbroken  dignity.  Now,  he 
marched  onward  with  a  warrior's  step,  keeping  time 


THE     GRAY     CHAMPION.  19 

to  the  military  music.  Thus  the  aged  form  advanced 
on  one  side,  and  the  whole  parade  of  soldiers  and  ma 
gistrates  on  the  other,  till,  when  scarcely  twenty  yards 
remained  between,  the  old  man  grasped  his  staff  by  the 
middle,  and  held  it  before  him  like  a  leader's  trun 
cheon. 

'  Stand  !'  cried  he. 

The  eye,  the  face,  and  attitude  of  command ;  the 
solemn,  yet  warlike  peal  of  that  voice,  fit  either  to  rule 
a  host  in  the  battle-field  or  be  raised  to  God  in  prayer, 
were  irresistible.  At  the  old  man's  word  and  out 
stretched  arm,  the  roll  of  the  drum  was  hushed  at  once, 
and  the  advancing  line  stood  still.  A  tremulous  en 
thusiasm  seized  upon  the  multitude.  That  stately 
form,  combining  the  leader  and  the  saint,  so  gray,  so 
dimly  seen,  in  such  an  ancient  garb,  could  only  belong 
to  some  old  champion  of  the  righteous  cause,  whom 
the  oppressor's  drum  had  summoned  from  his  grave. 
They  raised  a  shout  of  awe  and  exultation,  and  looked 
for  the  deliverance  of  New  England. 

The  Governor,  and  the  gentlemen  of  his  party,  per 
ceiving  themselves  brought  to  an  unexpected  stand, 
rode  hastily  forward,  as  if  they  would  have  pressed 
their  snorting  and  affrighted  horses  right  against  the 
hoary  apparition.  He,  however,  blenched  not  a  step, 
but  glancing  his  severe  eye  round  the  group,  which 
half  encompassed  him,  at  last  bent  it  sternly  on  Sir 
Edmund  Andros.  One  would  have  thought  that  the 
dark  old  man  was  chief  ruler  there,  and  that  the  Gor- 
ernor  and  Council,  with  soldiers  at  their  back,  repre- 


20  THE     GRAY     CHAMPION. 

senting  the  whole  power  and  authority  of  the  Crown, 
had  no  alternative  but  obedience. 

'What  does  this  old  fellow  here?'  cried  Edward 
Randolph,  fiercely.  '  On,  Sir  Edmund  !  Bid  the  sol 
diers  forward,  and  give  the  dotard  the  same  choice 
that  you  give  all  his  countrymen — to  stand  aside  or  be 
trampled  on !' 

*  Nay,  nay,  let  us  show  respect  to  the  good  grand- 
sire,'  said  Bullivant,  laughing.     '  See  you  not,  he  is 
some  old  round-headed  dignitary,  who  hath  lain  asleep 
these  thirty  years,  and  knows  nothing  of  the  change 
of  times  ?     Doubtless,  he  thinks  to  put  us  down  with 
a  proclamation  in  Old  Noll's  name !' 

*  Are  you  mad,  old  man  ?'   demanded  Sir  Edmund 
Andros,  in  loud  and  harsh  tones.     '  How  dare  you  stay 
the  march  of  King  James's  Governor  T 

'  I  have  staid  the  march  of  a  King  himself,  ere  now,' 
replied  the  gray  figure,  with  stern  composure.  '  I  am 
here,  Sir  Governor,  because  the  cry  of  an  oppressed 
people  hath  disturbed  me  in  my  secret  place ;  and  be 
seeching  this  favor  earnestly  of  the  Lord,  it  was  vouch 
safed  me  to  appear  once  again  on  earth,  in  the  good 
old  cause  of  his  Saints.  And  what  speak  ye  of  James? 
There  is  no  longer  a  popish  tyrant  on  the  throne  of 
England,  and  by  tomorrow  noon,  his  name  shall  be  a 
by-word  in  this  very  street,  where  ye  would  make  it  a 
word  of  terror.  Back,  thou  that  wast  a  Governor, 
back  !  With  this  night  thy  power  is  ended — tomor 
row,  the  prison  ! — back,  lest  I  foretel  the  scaffold !' 

The  people  had  been  drawing  nearer  and  nearer, 


THE     GRAY     CHAMPION.  21 

and  drinking  in  the  words  of  their  champion,  who 
spoke  in  accents  long  disused,  like  one  unaccustomed 
to  converse,  except  with  the  dead  of  many  years  ago. 
But  his  voice  stirred  their  souls.  They  confronted  the 
soldiers,  not  wholly  without  arms,  and  ready  to  con 
vert  the  very  stones  of  the  street  into  deadly  weapons. 
Sir  Edmund  Andros  looked  at  the  old  man ;  then  he 
cast  his  hard  and  cruel  eye  over  the  multitude,  and  be 
held  them  burning  with  that  lurid  wrath,  so  difficult  to 
kindle  or  to  quench;  and  again  he  fixed  his  gaze  on 
the  aged  form,  which  stood  obscurely  in  an  open  space, 
where  neither  friend  nor  foe  had  thrust  himself. 
What  were  his  thoughts,  he  uttered  no  word  which 
might  discover.  But  whether  the  oppressor  were  over 
awed  by  the  Gray  Champion's  look,  or  perceived  his 
peril  in  the  threatening  attitude  of  the  people,  it  is  cer 
tain  that  he  gave  back,  and  ordered  his  soldiers  to 
commence  a  slow  and  guarded  retreat.  Before  another 
sunset,  the  Governor,  and  all  that  rode  so  proudly  with 
him,  were  prisoners,  and  long  ere  it  was  known  that 
James  had  abdicated,  King  William  was  proclaimed 
throughout  New  England. 

But  where  was  the  Gray  Champion  ?  Some  report 
ed,  that  when  the  troops  had  gone  from  King-street, 
and  the  people  were  thronging  tumultuously  in  their 
rear,  Bradstreet,  the  aged  Governor,  was  seen  to  em 
brace  a  form  more  aged  than  his  own.  Others  soberly 
affirmed,  that  while  they  marveled  at  the  venerable 
grandeur  of  his  aspect,  the  old  man  had  faded  from 


22  THE     GRAY     CHAMPION. 

their  eyes,  melting  slowly  into  the  hues  of  twilight,  till, 
where  he  stood,  there  was  an  empty  space.  But  all 
agreed,  that  the  hoary  shape  was  gone.  The  men  of 
that  generation  watched  for  his  re-appearance,  in  sun 
shine  and  in  twilight,  but  never  saw  him  more,  nor 
knew  when  his  funeral  passed,  nor  where  his  grave 
stone  was. 

And  who  was  the  Gray  Champion  ?  Perhaps  his 
name  might  be  found  in  the  records  of  that  stern  Court 
of  Justice,  which  passed  a  sentence,  too  mighty  for 
the  age,  but  glorious  in  all  after  times,  for  its  humbling 
lesson  to  the  monarch  and  its  high  example  to  the 
subject.  I  have  heard,  that,  whenever  the  descend 
ants  of  the  Puritans  are  to  show  the  spirit  of  their  sires, 
the  old  man  appears  again.  When  eighty  years  had 
passed,  he  walked  once  more  in  King-street.  Five 
years  later,  in  the  twilight  of  an  April  morning,  he 
stood  on  the  green,  beside  the  meeting  house,  at  Lex 
ington,  where  now  the  obelisk  of  granite,  with  a  slab 
of  slate  inlaid,  commemorates  the  first  fallen  of  the 
Revolution.  And  when  our  fathers  were  toiling  at  the 
breastwork  on  Bunker's  Hill,  all  through  that  night 
the  old  warrior  walked  his  rounds.  Long,  Jong  may  it 
be,  ere  he  comes  again  !  His  hour  is  one  of  darkness, 
and  adversity,  and  peril.  But  should  domestic  tyranny 
oppress  us,  or  the  invader's  step  pollute  our  soil,  still 
may  the  Gray  Champion  come ;  for  he  is  the  type  of 
New  England's  hereditary  spirit;  and  his  shadowy 
march,  on  the  eve  of  danger,  must  ever  be  the  pledge, 
that  New  England's  sons  will  vindicate  their  ancestry. 


SUNDAY    AT    HOME 


SUNDAY   AT   HOME. 


EVERY  Sabbath  morning,  in  the  summer  time,  I 
thrust  back  the  curtain,  to  watch  the  sunrise  stealing 
down  a  steeple,  which  stands  opposite  my  chamber 
window.  First,  the  weathercock  begins  to  flash  ;  then, 
a  fainter  lustre  gives  the  spire  an  airy  aspect ;  next  it 
encroaches  on  the  tower,  and  causes  the  index  of  the 
dial  to  glisten  like  gold,  as  it  points  to  the  gilded  fig 
ure  of  the  hour.  Now,  the  loftiest  window  gleams, 
and  now  the  lower.  The  carved  frame-work  of  the 
portal  is  marked  strongly  out.  At  length,  the  morn 
ing  glory,  in  its  descent  from  Heaven,  comes  down  the 
stone  steps,  one  by  one  ;  and  there  stands  the  steeple, 
glowing  with  fresh  radiance,  while  the  shades  of  twi 
light  still  hide  themselves  among  the  nooks  of  the 
adjacent  buildings.  Methinks,  though  the  same  sun 
brightens  it,  every  fair  morning,  yet  the  steeple  has  a 
peculiar  robe  of  brightness  for  the  Sabbath. 

By  dwelling  near  a  church,  a  person  soon  contracts 
B* 


26  SUNDAYATHOME. 

an  attachment  for  the  edifice.  We  naturally  personify 
it,  and  conceive  its  massive  walls,  and  its  dim  empti 
ness,  to  be  instinct  with  a  calm,  and  meditative,  and 
somewhat  melancholy  spirit.  But  the  steeple  stands 
foremost,  in  our  thoughts,  as  well  as  locally.  It  im 
presses  us  as  a  giant,  with  a  mind  comprehensive  and 
discriminating  enough  to  care  for  the  great  and  small 
concerns  of  all  the  town.  Hourly,  while  it  speaks  a 
moral  to  the  few  that  think,  it  reminds  thousands  of 
busy  individuals  of  their  separate  and  most  secret 
affairs.  It  is  the  steeple,  too,  that  flings  abroad  the 
hurried  and  irregular  accents  of  general  alarm ;  neither 
have  gladness  and  festivity  found  a  better  utterance, 
than  by  its  tongue ;  and  when  the  dead  are  slowly 
passing  to  their  home,  the  steeple  has  a  melancholy 
voice  to  bid  them  welcome.  Yet,  in  spite  of  this  con 
nexion  with  human  interests,  what  a  moral  loneliness, 
on  week  days,  broods  round  about  its  stately  height ! 
It  has  no  kindred  with  the  houses  above  which  it 
towers ;  it  looks  down  into  the  narrow  thoroughfare, 
the  lonelier,  because  the  crowd  are  elbowing  their 
passage  at  its  base.  A  glance  at  the  body  of  the 
church  deepens  this  impression.  Within,  by  the  light 
of  distant  windows,  amid  refracted  shadows,  we  dis 
cern  the  vacant  pews  and  empty  galleries,  the  silent 
organ,  the  voiceless  pulpit,  and  the  clock,  which  tells 
to  solitude  how  time  is  passing.  Time — where  man 
lives  not — what  is  it  but  eternity  ?  And  in  the  church, 
we  might  suppose,  are  garnered  up,  throughout  the 


SUNDAYATHOME.  27 

week,  all  thoughts  and  feelings  that  have  reference  to 
eternity,  until  the  holy  day  comes  round  again,  to  let 
them  forth.  Might  not,  then,  its  more  appropriate  site 
be  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  with  space  for  old 
trees  to  wave  around  it,  and  throw  their  solemn  sha 
dows  over  a  quiet  green  ?  We  will  say  more  of  this, 
hereafter. 

But,  on  the  Sabbath,  I  watch  the  earliest  sunshine, 
and  fancy  that  a  holier  brightness  marks  the  day, 
when  there  shall  be  no  buzz  of  voices  on  the  Ex 
change,  nor  traffic  in  the  shops,  nor  crowd,  nor  bus 
iness,  anywhere  but  at  church.  Many  have  fancied 
so.  For  my  own  part,  whether  I  see  it  scattered  down 
among  tangled  woods,  or  beaming  broad  across  the 
fields,  or  hemmed  in  between  brick  buildings,  or  tra 
cing  out  the  figure  of  the  casement  on  my  chamber 
floor,  still  I  recognise  the  Sabbath  sunshine.  And 
ever  let  me  recognise  it!  Some  illusions,  and  this 
among  them,  are  the  shadows  of  great  truths.  Doubts 
may  flit  around  me,  or  seem  to  close  their  evil  wings, 
and  settle  down ;  but,  so  long  as  I  imagine  that  the 
earth  is  hallowed,  and  the  light  of  heaven  retains  its 
sanctity,  on  the  Sabbath — while  that  blessed  sunshine 
lives  within  me — never  can  my  soul  have  lost  the  in 
stinct  of  its  faith.  If  it  have  gone  astray,  it  will  return 
again. 

I  love  to  spend  such  pleasant  Sabbaths,  from  morn 
ing  till  night,  behind  the  curtain  of  my  open  window. 
Are  they  spent  amiss  ?  Every  spot,  so  near  the  church 


28  SUNDAY      AT     HOME. 

as  to  be  visited  by  the  circling  shadow  of  the  steeple, 
should  be  deemed  consecrated  ground,  to-day.  With 
stronger  truth  be  it  said,  that  a  devout  heart  may  con 
secrate  a  den  of  thieves,  as  an  evil  one  may  convert  a 
temple  to  the  same.  My  heart,  perhaps,  has  not  such 
holy,  nor,  I  would  fain  trust,  such  impious  potency. 
It  must  suffice,  that,  though  my  form  be  absent,  my 
inner  man  goes  constantly  to  church,  while  many, 
whose  bodily  presence  fills  the  accustomed  seats,  have 
left  their  souls  at  home.  But  I  am  there,  even  before 
my  friend,  the  sexton.  At  length,  he  comes — a  man 
of  kindly,  but  sombre  aspect,  in  dark  gray  clothes, 
and  hair  of  the  same  mixture — he  comes,  and  applies 
his  key  to  the  wide  portal.  Now,  my  thoughts  may 
go  in  among  the  dusty  pews,  or  ascend  the  pulpit 
without  sacrilege,  but  soon  come  forth  again,  to  enjoy 
the  music  of  the  bell.  How  glad,  yet  solemn  too ! 
All  the  steeples  in  town  are  talking  together,  aloft  in 
the  sunny  air,  and  rejoicing  among  themselves,  while 
their  spires  point  heavenward.  Meantime,  here  are 
the  children  assembling  to  the  Sabbath-school,  which 
is  kept  somewhere  within  the  church.  Often,  while 
looking  at  the  arched  portal,  I  have  been  gladdened 
by  the  sight  of  a  score  of  these  little  girls  and  boys,  in 
pink,  blue,  yellow,  and  crimson  frocks,  bursting  sud 
denly  forth  into  the  sunshine,  like  a  swarm  of  gay 
butterflies  that  had  been  shut  up  in  the  solemn  gloom. 
Or  I  might  compare  them  to  cherubs,  haunting  that 
holy  place. 


SUNDAYATHOME.  29 

About  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  the  second  ring 
ing  of  the  bell,  individuals  of  the  congregation  begin 
to  appear.  The  earliest  is  invariably  an  old  woman 
in  black,  whose  bent  frame  and  rounded  shoulders  are 
evidently  laden  with  some  heavy  affliction,  which  she 
is  eager  to  rest  upon  the  altar.  Would  that  the  Sab 
bath  came  twice  as  often,  for  the  sake  of  that  sorrow 
ful  old  soul !  There  is  an  elderly  man,  also,  who 
arrives  in  good  season,  and  leans  against  the  corner 
of  the  tower,  just  within  the  line  of  its  shadow,  look 
ing  downward  with  a  darksome  brow.  I  sometimes 
fancy  that  the  old  woman  is  the  happier  of  the  two. 
After  these,  others  drop  in  singly,  and  by  twos  and 
threes,  either  disappearing  through  the  door-way,  or 
taking  their  stand  in  its  vicinity.  At  last,  and  always 
with  an  unexpected  sensation,  the  bell  turns  in  the 
steeple  overhead,  and  throws  out  an  irregular  clangor, 
jarring  the  tower  to  its  foundation.  As  if  there  were 
magic  in  the  sound,  the  sidewalks  of  the  street,  both 
up  and  down  along,  are  immediately  thronged  with 
two  long  lines  of  people,  all  converging  hitherward, 
and  streaming  into  the  church.  Perhaps  the  far-off 
roar  of  a  coach  draws  nearer — a  deeper  thunder  by  its 
contrast  with  the  surrounding  stillness — until  it  sets 
down  the  wealthy  worshipers  at  the  portal,  among 
their  humblest  brethren.  Beyond  that  entrance,  in 
theory  at  least,  there  are  no  distinctions  of  earthly 
rank ;  nor,  indeed,  by  the  goodly  apparel  which  is 
flaunting  in  the  sun,  would  there  seem  to  be  such,  on 


30  SUNDAYATHOME. 

the  hither  side.  Those  pretty  girls  !  Why  will  they 
disturb  my  pious  meditations !  Of  all  days  in  the 
week,  they  should  strive  to  look  least  fascinating  on 
the  Sabbath,  instead  of  heightening  their  mortal  love 
liness,  as  if  to  rival  the  blessed  angels,  and  keep  our 
thoughts  from  heaven.  Were  I  the  minister  himself, 
I  must  needs  look.  One  girl  is  white  muslin  from  the 
waist  upwards,  and  black  silk  downwards  to  her  slip 
pers  ;  a  second  blushes  from  top-knot  to  shoe-tie,  one 
universal  scarlet ;  another  shines  of  a  pervading  yellow, 
as  if  she  had  made  a  garment  of  the  sunshine.  The 
greater  part,  however,  have  adopted  a  milder  cheerful 
ness  of  hue.  Their  veils,  especially  when  the  wind 
raises  them,  give  a  lightness  to  the  general  effect,  and 
make  them  appear  like  airy  phantoms,  as  they  flit  up 
the  steps,  and  vanish  into  the  sombre  door-way.  Near 
ly  all — though  it  is  very  strange  that  I  should  know 
it — wear  white  stockings,  white  as  snow,  and  neat 
slippers,  laced  crosswise  with  black  ribbon,  pretty 
high  above  the  ankles.  A  white  stocking  is  infinitely 
more  effective  than  a  black  one. 

Here  comes  the  clergyman,  slow  and  solemn,  in 
severe  simplicity,  needing  no  black  silk  gown  to  denote 
his  office.  His  aspect  claims  my  reverence,  but  can 
not  win  my  love.  Were  I  to  picture  Saint  Peter, 
keeping  fast  the  gate  of  Heaven,  and  frowning,  more 
stern  than  pitiful,  on  the  wretched  applicants,  that 
face  should  be  my  study.  By  middle  age,  or  sooner, 
the  creed  has  generally  wrought  upon  the  heart,  or 


SUNDAY     AT     HOME.  31 

been  attempered  by  it.  As  the  minister  passes  into 
the  church,  the  bell  holds  its  iron  tongue,  and  all  the 
low  murmur  of  the  congregation  dies  away.  The 
gray  sexton  looks  up  and  down  the  street,  and  then  at 
my  wjndow  curtain,  where,  through  the  small  peep 
hole,  I  half  fancy  that  he  has  caught  my  eye.  Now, 
every  loiterer  has  gone  in,  and  the  street  lies  asleep  in 
the  quiet  sun,  while  a  feeling  of  loneliness  comes  over 
me,  and  brings  also  an  uneasy  sense  of  neglected 
privileges  and  duties.  Oh,  I  ought  to  have  gone  to 
church  !  The  bustle  of  the  rising  congregation  reaches 
my  ears.  They  are  standing  up  to  pray.  Could  I 
bring  my  heart  into  unison  with  those  who  are  pray 
ing  in  yonder  church,  and  lift  it  heavenward,  with  a 
fervor  of  supplication,  but  no  distinct  request,  would 
not  that  be  the  safest  kind  of  prayer  1  '  Lord,  look 
down  upon  me  in  mercy  !'  With  that  sentiment  gush 
ing  from  my  soul,  might  I  not  leave  all  the  rest  to 
Him? 

Hark!  the  hymn.  This,  at  least,  is  a  portion  of 
the  service  which  I  can  enjoy  better  than  if  I  sat  with 
in  the  walls,  where  the  full  choir,  and  the  massive 
melody  of  the  organ,  would  fall  with  a  weight  upon 
me.  At  this  distance,  it  thrills  through  my  frame, 
and  plays  upon  my  heart-strings,  with  a  pleasure  both 
of  the  sense  and  spirit.  Heaven  be  praised,  I  know 
nothing  of  music,  as  a  science;  and  the  most  elabo 
rate  harmonies,  if  they  please  me,  please  as  simply  as 
a  nurse's  lullaby.  The  strain  has  ceased,  but  prolongs 


32  SUNDAY     AT     HOME. 

itself  in  my  mind,  with  fanciful  echoes,  till  I  start 
from  my  reverie,  and  find  that  the  sermon  has  com 
menced.  It  is  my  misfortune  seldom  to  fructify,  in  a 
regular  way,  by  any  but  printed  sermons.  The  first 
strong  idea,  which  the  preacher  utters,  gives  birth  to 
a  train  of  thought,  and  leads  me  onward,  step  by  step, 
quite  out  of  hearing  of  the  good  man's  voice,  unless 
he  be  indeed  a  son  of  thunder.  At  my  open  window, 
catching  now  and  then  a  sentence  of  the  '  parson's 
saw/  I  am  as  well  situated  as  at  the  foot  of  the  pulpit 
stairs.  The  broken  and  scattered  fragments  of  this 
one  discourse  will  be  the  texts  of  many  sermons, 
preached  by  those  colleague  pastors — colleagues,  but 
often  disputants — my  Mind  and  Heart.  The  former 
pretends  to  be  a  scholar,  and  perplexes  me  with  doc 
trinal  points  ;  the  latter  takes  me  on  the  score  of  feel 
ing  ;  and  both,  like  several  other  preachers,  spend 
their  strength  to  very  little  purpose.  I,  their  sole 
auditor,  cannot  always  understand  them. 

Suppose  that  a  few  hours  have  passed,  and  behold 
me  still  behind  my  curtain,  just  before  the  close  of 
the  afternoon  service.  The  hour-hand  on  the  dial  has 
passed  beyond  four  o'clock.  The  declining  sun  is 
hidden  behind  the  steeple,  and  throws  its  shadow 
straight  across  the  street,  so  that  my  chamber  is  dark 
ened,  as  with  a  cloud.  Around  the  church  door,  all 
is  solitude,  and  an  impenetrable  obscurity,  beyond  the 
threshold.  A  commotion  is  heard.  The  seats  are 
slammed  down,  and  the  pew  doors  thrown  back — a 


SUNDAY     AT     HOME.  33 

multitude  of, feet  are  trampling  along  the  unseen 
aisles — and  the  congregation  bursts  suddenly  through 
the  portal.  Foremost,  scampers  a  rabble  of  boys,  be 
hind  whom  moves  a  dense  and  dark  phalanx  of  grown 
men,  and  lastly,  a  crowd  of  females,  with  young  child 
ren,  and  a  few  scattered  husbands.  This  instantaneous 
outbreak  of  life  into  loneliness  is  one  of  the  pleasantest 
scenes  of  the  day.  Some  of  the  good  people  are  rub 
bing  their  eyes,  thereby  intimating  that  they  have 
been  wrapt,  as  it  were,  in  a  sort  of  holy  trance,  by 
the  fervor  of  their  devotion.  There  is  a  young  man, 
a  third-rate  coxcomb,  whose  first  care  is  always  to 
flourish  a  white  handkerchief,  and  brush  the  seat  of  a 
tight  pair  of  black  silk  pantaloons,  which  shine  as  if 
varnished.  They  must  have  been  made  of  the  stuff 
called  '  everlasting,'  or  perhaps  of  the  same  piece  as 
Christian's  garments,  in  the  Pilgrim's  Progress,  for  he 
put  them  on  two  summers  ago,  and  has  not  yet  worn 
the  gloss  off.  I  have  taken  a  great  liking  to  those 
black  silk  pantaloons.  But,  now,  with  nods  and 
greetings  among  friends,  each  matron  takes  her  hus 
band's  arm,  and  paces  gravely  homeward,  while  the 
girls  also  flutter  away,  after  arranging  sunset  walks 
with  their  favored  bachelors.  The  Sabbath  eve  is  the 
eve  of  love.  At  length,  the  whole  congregation  is 
dispersed.  No ;  here,  with  faces  as  glossy  as  black 
satin,  come  two  sable  ladies  and  a  sable  gentleman, 
and  close  in  their  rear,  the  minister,  who  softens  his 
severe  visage,  and  bestows  a  kind  word  on  each.  Poor 
c 


34  SUNDAY     AT     HOME. 

souls  !  To  them,  the  most  captivating  picture  of  bliss 
in  Heaven,  is — '  There  we  shall  be  white  !' 

All  is  solitude  again.  But,  hark  !— a  broken  warb 
ling  of  voices,  and  now,  attuning  its  grandeur  to  their 
sweetness,  a  stately  peal  of  the  organ.  Who  are  the 
choristers?  Let  me  dream,  that  the  angels,  who 
came  down  from  Heaven,  this  blessed  morn,  to  blend 
themselves  with  the  worship  of  the  truly  good,  are 
playing  and  singing  their  farewell  to  the  earth.  On 
the  wings  of  that  rich  melody,  they  were  borne  upward. 

This,  gentle  reader,  is  merely  a  flight  of  poetry.  A 
few  of  the  singing  men  and  singing  women  had  linger 
ed  behind  their  fellows,  and  raised  their  voices  fitfully, 
and  blew  a  careless  note  upon  the  organ.  Yet,  it 
lifted  my  soul  higher  than  all  their  former  strains. 
They  are  gone — the  sons  and  daughters  of  music — 
and  the  gray  sexton  is  just  closing  the  portal.  For 
six  days  more,  there  will  be  no  face  of  man  in  the 
pews,  and  aisles,  and  galleries,  nor  a  voice  in  the 
pulpit,  nor  music  in  the  choir.  Was  it  worth  while 
to  rear  this  massive  edifice,  to  be  a  desert  in  the  heart 
of  the  town,  and  populous  only  for  a  few  hours  of  each 
seventh  day  ?  Oh !  but  the  church  is  a  symbol  of 
religion.  May  its  site,  which  was  consecrated  on  the 
day  when  the  first  tree  was  felled,  be  kept  holy  for  ever, 
a  spot  of  solitude  and  peace,  amid  the  trouble  and 
vanity  of  our  week-day  world  !  There  is  a  moral,  and 
a  religion  too,  even  in  the  silent  walls.  And,  may  the 
steeple  still  point  heavenward,  and  be  decked  with  the 
hallowed  sunshine  of  the  Sabbath  morn  ! 


THE    WEDDING    KNELL. 


^ 


THE    WEDDING    KNELL. 


THERE  is  a  certain  church  in  the  city  of  New  York, 
which  I  have  always  regarded  with  peculiar  interest, 
on  account  of  a  marriage  there  solemnized,  under 
very  singular  circumstances,  in  my  grandmother's  girl 
hood.  That  venerable  lady  chanced  to  be  a  spectator 
of  the  scene,  and  ever  after  made  it  her  favorite  narra 
tive.  Whether  the  edifice  now  standing  on  the  same 
site  be  the  identical  one  to  which  she  referred,  I  am 
not  antiquarian  enough  to  know ;  nor  would  it  be 
worth  while  to  correct  myself,  perhaps,  of  an  agree 
able  error,  by  reading  the  date  of  its  erection  on  the 
tablet  over  the  door.  It  is  a  stately  church,  surround 
ed  by  an  inclosure  of  the  lovelies  green,  within  which 
appear  urns,  pillars,  obelisks,  and  other  forms  of  mon 
umental  marble,  the  tributes  of  private  affection,  or 
more  splendid  memorials  of  historic  dust.  With  such 
a  place,  though  the  tumult  of  the  city  rolls  beneath 


38  THE     WEDDING     KNELL. 

its  tower,  one   would   be   willing  to   connect  some 
legendary  interest. 

The  marriage  might  be  considered  as  the  result  of 
an  early  engagement,  though  there  had  been  two  in 
termediate  weddings  on  the  lady's  part,  and  forty  years 
of  celibacy  on  that  of  the  gentleman.  At  sixty-five, 
Mr.  Ellenwood  was  a  shy,  but  not  quite  a  secluded 
man ;  selfish,  like  all  men  who  brood  over  their  own 
hearts,  yet  manifesting,  on  rare  occasions,  a  vein  of 
generous  sentiment ;  a  scholar,  throughout  life,  though 
always  an  indolent  one,  because  his  studies  had  no 
definite  object,  either  of  public  advantage  or  personal 
ambition ;  a  gentleman,  high-bred  and  fastidiously 
delicate,  yet  sometimes  requiring  a  considerable  re 
laxation,  in  his  behalf,  of  the  common  rules  of  society. 
In  truth,  there  were  so  many  anomalies  in  his  charac 
ter,  and,  though  shrinking  with  diseased  sensibility 
from  public  notice,  it  had  been  his  fatality  so  often  to 
become  the  topic  of  the  day,  by  some  wild  eccentricity 
of  conduct,  that  people  searched  his  lineage  for  an 
hereditary  taint  of  insanity.  But  there  was  no  need 
of  this.  His  caprices  had  their  origin  in  a  mind  that 
lacked  the  support  of  an  engrossing  purpose,  and  in 
feelings  that  preyed  upon  themselves,  for  want  of  other 
food.  If  he  were  mad,  it  was  the  consequence,  and 
not  the  cause,  of  an  aimless  and  abortive  life. 

The  widow  was  as  complete  a  contrast  to  her  third 
bridegroom,  in  every  thing  but  age,  as  can  well  be 
conceived.  Compelled  to  relinquish  her  first  engage- 


THE     WEDDING     KNELL.  39 

merit,  she  had  been  united  to  a  man  of  twice  her  own 
years,  to  whom  she  became  an  exemplary  wife,  and  by 
whose  death  she  was  left  in  possession  of  a  splendid 
fortune.     A  southern  gentleman  considerably  younger 
than  herself,  succeeded  to  her  hand,  and  carried  her 
to  Charleston,  where,  after  many  uncomfortable  years, 
she  found  herself  again  a  widow.     It  would  have  been 
singular,  if  any  uncommon  delicacy  of  feeling  had 
survived  through  such  a  life  as  Mrs.  Dabney's;    it 
could  not  but  be  crushed  and  killed  by  her  early  dis 
appointment,  the  cold  duty  of  her  first  marriage,  the 
dislocation  of  the  heart's  principles,  consequent  on  a 
second  union,   and  the  unkindness  of  her  southern 
husband,  which  had  inevitably  driven  her  to  connect 
the  idea  of  his  death  with  that  of  her  comfort.     To 
be  brief,  she  was  that  wisest,  but  unloveliest  variety 
of  woman,  a  philosopher,  bearing  troubles  of  the  heart 
with  equanimity,  dispensing  with  all  that  should  have 
been  her  happiness,  and  making  the  best  of  what  re 
mained.     Sage  in  most  matters,  the  widow  was  per 
haps  the  more  amiable,  for  the  one  frailty  that  made 
her  ridiculous.     Being  childless,  she  could  not  remain 
beautiful  by  proxy,  in  the  person  of  a  daughter ;  she 
therefore  refused  to  grow  old  and  ugly,  on  any  con 
sideration  ;  she  struggled  with  Time,  and  held  fast  her 
roses  in  spite  of  him,  till  the  venerable  thief  appeared 
to  have  relinquished  the  spoil,  as  not  worth  the  trouble 
of  acquiring  it. 
The  approaching  marriage  of  this  woman  of  the 


40  THE      WEDDING     KNELL. 

world,  with  such  an  unworldly  man  as  Mr.  Ellenwood, 
was  announced  soon  after  Mrs.  Dabney's  return  to  her 
native  city.  Superficial  observers,  and  deeper  ones, 
seemed  to  concur,  in  supposing  that  the  lady  must 
have  borne  no  inactive  part,  in  arranging  the  affair ; 
there  were  considerations  of  expediency,  which  she 
would  be  far  more  likely  to  appreciate  than  Mr.  Ellen- 
wood  ;  and  there  was  just  the  specious  phantom  of 
sentiment  and  romance,  in  this  late  union  of  two  early 
lovers,  which  sometimes  makes  a  fool  of  a  woman, 
who  has  lost  her  true  feelings  among  the  accidents  of 
life.  All  the  wonder  was,  how  the  gentleman,  with 
his  lack  of  worldly  wisdom,  and  agonizing  conscious 
ness  of  ridicule,  could  have  been  induced  to  take  a 
measure,  at  once  so  prudent  and  so  laughable.  But 
while  people  talked,  the  wedding  day  arrived.  The 
ceremony  was  to  be  solemnized  according  to  the 
Episcopalian  forms,  and  in  open  church,  with  a  degree 
of  publicity  that  attracted  many  spectators,  who  occu 
pied  the  front  seats  of  the  galleries,  and  the  pews  near 
the  altar  and  along  the  broad  aisle.  It  had  been 
arranged,  or  possibly  it  was  the  custom  of  the  day, 
that  the  parties  should  proceed  separately  to  church. 
By  some  accident,  the  bridegroom  was  a  little  less 
punctual  than  the  widow  and  her  bridal  attendants  ; 
with  whose  arrival,  after  this  tedious,  but  necessary 
preface,  the  action  of  our  tale  may  be  said  to  com 
mence. 

The  clumsy  wheels  of  several  old  fashioned  coaches 


THE     WEDDING     KNELL.  41 

were  heard,  and  the  gentlemen  and  ladies,  composing 
the  bridal  party,  came  through  the  church  door,  with 
the  sudden  and  gladsome  effect  of  a  burst  of  sunshine. 
The  whole  group,  except  the  principal  figure,  was 
made  up  of  youth  and  gaiety.  As  they  streamed  up 
the  broad  aisle,  while  the  pews  and  pillars  seemed  to 
brighten  on  either  side,  their  steps  were  as  buoyant  as 
if  they  mistook  the  church  for  a  ball-room,  and  were 
ready  to  dance  hand  in  hand  to  the  altar.  So  brilliant 
was  the  spectacle,  that  few  took  notice  of  a  singular 
phenomenon  that  had  marked  its  entrance.  At  the 
moment  when  the  bride's  foot  touched  the  threshold, 
the  bell  swung  heavily  in  the  tower  above  her,  and 
sent  forth  its  deepest  knell.  The  vibrations  died 
away  and  returned,  with  prolonged  solemnity,  as  she 
entered  the  body  of  the  church. 

1  Good  heavens  !  what  an  omen,'  whispered  a  young 
lady  to  her  lover. 

'  On  my  honor,'  replied  the  gentleman,  '  I  believe 
the  bell  has  the  good  taste  to  toll  of  its  own  accord. 
What  has  she  to  do  with  weddings  1  If  you,  dearest 
Julia,  were  approaching  the  altar,  the  bell  would  ring 
out  its  merriest  peal.  It  has  only  a  funeral  knell  for 
her/ 

The  bride,  and  most  of  her  company,  had  been  too 
much  occupied  with  the  bustle  of  entrance,  to  hear 
the  first  boding  stroke  of  the  bell,  or  at  least  to  reflect 
on  the  singularity  of  such  a  welcome  to  the  altar. 
They  therefore  continued  to  advance,  with  undiminish- 


42  THE     WEDDING     KNELL. 

ed  gaiety.  The  gorgeous  dresses  of  the  time,  the 
crimson  velvet  coats,  the  gold-laced  hats,  the  hoop- 
petticoats,  the  silk,  satin,  brocade  and  embroidery, 
the  buckles,  canes  and  swords,  all  displayed  to  the 
best  advantage  on  persons  suited  to  such  finery,  made 
the  group  appear  more  like  a  bright  colored  picture, 
than  any  thing  real.  But  by  what  perversity  of  taste, 
had  the  artist  represented  his  principal  figure  as  so 
wrinkled  and  decayed,  while  yet  he  had  decked  her 
out  in  the  brightest  splendor  of  attire,  as  if  the  love 
liest  maiden  had  suddenly  withered  into  age,  and  be 
come  a  moral  to  the  beautiful  around  her  !  On  they 
went,  however,  and  had  glittered  along  about  a  third 
of  the  aisle,  when  another  stroke  of  the  bell  seemed  to 
fill  the  church  with  a  visible  gloom,  dimming  and 
obscuring  the  bright  pageant,  till  it  shone  forth  again 
as  from  a  mist. 

This  time  the  party  wavered,  stopt,  and  huddled 
closer  together,  while  a  slight  scream  was  heard  from 
some  of  the  ladies,  and  a  confused  whispering  among 
the  gentlemen.  Thus  tossing  to  and  fro,  they  might 
have  been  fancifully  compared  to  a  splendid  bunch  of 
flowers,  suddenly  shaken  by  a  puff  of  wind,  which 
threatened  to  scatter  the  leaves  of  an  old,  brown,  with 
ered  rose,  on  the  same  stalk  with  two  dewy  buds ; 
such  being  the  emblem  of  the  widow  between  her  fair 
young  bridemaids.  But  her  heroism  was  admirable. 
She  had  started  with  an  irrepressible  shudder,  as  if  the 
stroke  of  the  bell  had  fallen  directly  on  her  heart ; 


THE     WEDDING     KNELL.  43 

1 

then,  recovering  herself,  while  her  attendants  were  yet 
in  dismay,  she  took  the  lead,  and  paced  calmly  up  the 
aisle.  The  bell  continued  to  swing,  strike,  and  vi 
brate,  with  the  same  doleful  regularity,  as  when  a 
corpse  is  on  its  way  to  the  tomb. 

'  My  young  friends  here  have  their  nerves  a  little 
shaken/  said  the  widow,  with  a  smile,  to  the  clergy 
man  at  the  altar.  '  But  so  many  weddings  have  been 
ushered  in  with  the  merriest  peal  of  the  bells,  and  yet 
turned  out  unhappily,  that  I  shall  hope  for  better  for 
tune  under  such  different  auspices.' 

'  Madam,'  answered  the  rector,  in  great  perplexity, 
'  this  strange  occurrence  brings  to  my  mind  a  marriage 
sermon  of  the  'famous  Bishop  Taylor,  wherein  he 
mingles  so  many  thoughts  of  mortality  and  future  woe, 
that,  to  speak  somewhat  after  his  own  rich  style,  he 
seems  to  hang  the  bridal  chamber  in  black,  and  cut 
the  wedding  garment  out  of  a  coffin  pall.  And  it  has 
been  the  custom  of  divers  nations  to  infuse  something 
of  sadness  into  their  marriage  ceremonies  ;  so  to  keep 
death  in  mind,  while  contracting  that  engagement 
which  is  life's  chiefest  business.  Thus  we  may  draw 
a  sad  but  profitable  moral  from  this  funeral  knell.' 

But,  though  the  clergyman  might  have  given  his 
moral  even  a  keener  point,  he  did  not  fail  to  despatch 
an  attendant  to  inquire  into  the  mystery,  and  stop 
those  sounds,  so  dismally  appropriate  to  such  a  mar 
riage.  A  brief  space  elapsed,  during  which  the  silence 

was  broken  only  by  whispers,  and  a  few  suppressed 

- 


44  THE     WEDDING     KNELL. 

titterings,  among  the  wedding  party  and  the  spectators, 
who,  after  the  first  shock,  were  disposed  to  draw  an  ill- 
natured  merriment  from  the  affair.  The  young  have 
less  charity  for  aged  follies,  than  the  old  for  those  of 
youth.  The  widow's  glance  was  observed  to  wander, 
for  an  instant,  towards  a  window  of  the  church,  as  if 
searching  for  the  time-worn  marble  that  she  had  dedi 
cated  to  her  first  husband  ;  then  her  eyelids  dropt  over 
their  faded  orbs,  and  her  thoughts  were  drawn  irresist 
ibly  to  another  grave.  Two  buried  men,  with  a  voice 
at  her  ear  and  a  cry  afar  off,  were  calling  her  to  lie 
down  beside  them.  Perhaps,  with  momentary  truth 
of  feeling,  she  thought  how  much  happier  had  been 
her  fate,  if,  after  years  of  bliss,  the  bell  were  now  toll 
ing  for  her  funeral,  and  she  were  followed  to  the  grave 
by  the  old  affection  of  her  earliest  lover,  long  her 
husband.  But  why  had  she  returned  to  him,  when 
their  cold  hearts  shrank  from  each  other's  embrace? 
Still  the  death-bell  tolled  so  mournfully,  that  the 
sunshine  seemed  to  fade  in  the  air.  A  whisper,  com 
municated  from  those  who  stood  nearest  the  windows, 
now  spread  through  the  church  ;  a  hearse,  with  a  train 
of  several  coaches,  was  creeping  along  the  street,  con 
veying  some  dead  man  to  the  church-yard,  while  the 
bride  awaited  a  living  one  at  the  altar.  Immediately 
after,  the  footsteps  of  the  bridegroom  and  his  friends 
were  heard  at  the  door.  The  widow  looked  down 
the  aisle,  and  clenched  the  arm  of  one  of  her  bride, 
maids  in  her  bony  hand,  with  such  unconscious  vio 
lence,  that  the  fair  girl  trembled. 


THE      WEDDING      KNELL.  45 

'  You  frighten  me,  my  dear  madam !'  cried  she. 
'  For  heaven's  sake,  what  is  the  matter?'  i 

'  Nothing,  my  dear,  nothing,'  said  the  widow ;  then, 
whispering  close  to  her  ear, — '  There  is  a  foolish  fancy, 
that  I  cannot  get  rid  of.  I  am  expecting  my  bride 
groom  to  come  into  the  church,  with  my  two  first  hus 
bands  for  groomsmen  !' 

*  Look,  look  !'  screamed  the  bridemaid.  '  What  is 
here  ?  The  funeral !' 

As  she  spoke,  a  dark  procession  paced  into  the 
church.  First  came  an  old  man  and  woman,  like 
chief  mourners  at  a  funeral,  attired  from  head  to  foot 
in  the  deepest  black,  all  but  their  pale  features  and 
hoary  hair ;  he  leaning  on  a  staff,  and  supporting  her 
decrepit  form  with  his  nerveless  arm.  Behind,  appear 
ed  another,  and  another  pair,  as  aged,  as  black,  and 
mournful  as  the  first.  As  they  drew  near,  the  widow 
recognised  in  every  face  some  trait  of  former  friends, 
long  forgotten,  but  now  returning,  as  if  from  their  old 
graves,  to  warn  her  to  prepare  a  shroud  ;  or,  with  pur 
pose  almost  as  unwelcome,  to  exhibit  their  wrinkles 
and  infirmity,  and  claim  her  as  their  companion  by 
the  tokens  of  her  own  decay.  Many  a  merry  night 
had  she  danced  with  them,  in  youth.  And  now,  in 
joyless  age,  she  felt  that  some  withered  partner  should 
request  her  hand,  and  all  unite,  in  a  dance  of  death, 
to  the  music  of  the  funeral  bell. 

While  these   aged  mourners  were  passing  up  the 

aisle,  it  was  observed,  that,   from  pew  to  pew,  the 
D 


46  THE      WEDDING      KNELL. 

spectators  shuddered  with  irrepressible  awe,  as  some 
object,  hitherto  concealed  by  the  intervening  figures, 
came  full  in  sight.  Many  turned  away  their  faces ; 
others  kept  a  fixed  and  rigid  stare  ;  and  a  young  girl 
giggled  hysterically,  and  fainted  with  the  laughter  on 
her  lips.  When  the  spectral  procession  approached 
the  altar,  each  couple  separated,  and  slowly  diverged, 
till,  in  the  centre,  appeared  a  form,  that  had  been 
worthily  ushered  in  with  all  this  gloomy  pomp,  the 
death-knell,  and  the  funeral  It  was  the  bridegroom 
in  his  shroud  ! 

No  garb  but  that  of  the  grave  could  have  befitted 
such  a  death-like  aspect;  the  eyes,  indeed,  had  the 
wilp!  gleam  of  a  sepulchral  lamp  ;  all  else  was  fixed  in 
the  stern  calmness  which  old  men  wear  in  the  coffin. 
The  corpse  stood  motionless,  but  addressed  the  widow 
in  accents  that  seemed  to  melt  into  the  clang  of  the 
bell,  which  fell  heavily  on  the  air  while  he  spoke. 

'  Come,  my  bride  !'  said  those  pale  lips,  '  The  hearse 
is  ready.  The  sexton  stands  waiting  for  us  at  the 
door  of  the  tomb.  Let  us  be  married ;  and  then  to 
our  coffins  !' 

How  shall  the  widow's  horror  be  represented!  It 
gave  her  the  ghastliness  of  a  dead  man's  bride.  Her 
youthful  friends  stood  apart,  shuddering  at  the  mourn 
ers,  the  shrouded  bridegroom,  and  herself;  the  whole 
scene  expressed,  by  the  strongest  imagery,  the  vain 
struggle  of  the  gilded  vanities  of  this  world,  when  op 
posed  to  age,  infirmity,  sorrow,  and  death.  The  awe 
struck  silence  was  first  broken  by  the  clergyman. 


THE      WEDDING      KNELL.  47 

'  Mr  Ellenwood,'  said  he,  soothingly,  yet  with  some 
what  of  authority,  '  you  are  not  well.  Your  mind  has 
been  agitated  by  the  unusual  circumstances  in  which 
you  are  placed.  The  ceremony  must  be  deferred.  As 
an  old  friend,  let  me  entreat  you  to  return  home.' 

'  Home  !  yes  ;  but  not  without  my  bride/  answered 
he,  in  the  same  hollow  accents.  '  You  deem  this 
mockery ;  perhaps  madness.  Had  I  bedizened  my 
aged  and  broken  frame  with  scarlet  and  embroidery — 
had  I  forced  my  withered  lips  to  smile  at  my  dead 
heart — that  might  have  been  mockery,  .or  madness. 
But  now,  let  young  and  old  declare,  which  0f  us  has 
come  hither  without  a  wedding  garment,  the  bride 
groom,  or  the  bride !' 

He  stept  forward  at  a  ghostly  pace,  and  stood  beside 
the  widow,  contrasting  the  awful  simplicity  of  his 
shroud  with  the  glare  and  glitter  in  which  she  had 
arrayed  herself  for  this  unhappy  scene.  None,  that 
beheld  them,  could  deny  the  terrible  strength  of  the 
moral  which  his  disordered  intellect  had  contrived  to 
draw. 

4  Cruel !  cruel !'  groaned  the  heart-stricken  bride. 

'  Cruel  V  repeated  he ;  then  losing  his  death-like 
composure  in  a  wild  bitterness, — '  Heaven  judge,  which 
of  us  has  been  cruel  to  the  other !  In  youth,  you  de 
prived  me  of  my  happiness,  my  hopes,. my  aims;  you 
took  away  all  the  substance  of  my  life,  and  made  it  a 
dream,  without  reality  enough  even  to  grieve  at — with 
only  a  pervading  gloom,  through  which  I  walked 


48  THE      WEDDING      KNELL. 

wearily,  and  cared  not  whither.  But  after  forty  years, 
when  I  have  built  my  tomb,  and  would  not  give  up 
the  thought  of  resting  there — no,  not  for  such  a  life 
as  we  once  pictured — you  call  me  to  the  altar.  At 
your  summons  I  am  here.  But  other  husbands  have 
enjoyed  your  youth,  your  beauty,  your  warmth  of  heart, 
and  all  that  could  be  termed  your  life.  What  is  there 
for  me  but  your  decay  and  death  1  And  therefore  I 
have  bidden  these  funeral  friends,  and  bespoken  the 
sexton's  deepest  knell,  and  am  come,  in  my  shroud,  to 
wed  you,  as  with  a  burial  service,  that  we  may  join 
our  hands  at  the  door  of  the  sepulchre,  and  enter  it* 
together.' 

It  was  not  frenzy ;  it  was  not  merely  the  drunk 
enness  of  Strong  emotion,  in  a  heart  unused  to  it,  that 
now  wrought  upon  the  bride.  The  stern  lesson  of  the 
day  had  done  its  work ;  her  worldliness  was  gone.  She 
seized  the  bridegroom's  hand. 

'  Yes !'  cried  she.  '  Let  us  wed,  even  at  the  door 
of  the  sepulchre!  My  life  is  gone  in  vanity  and 
emptiness.  But  at  its  close,  there  is  one  true  feeling. 
It  has  made  me  what  I  was  in  youth;  it  makes  me 
worthy  of  you.  Time  is  no  more  for  both  of  us.  Let 
us  wed  for  eternity !' 

With  a  long  and  deep  regard,  the  bridegroom  look 
ed  into  her  eyes,  while  a  tear  was  gathering  in  his 
own.  How  strange  that  gush  of  human  feeling  from 
the  frozen  bosom  of  a  corpse !  He  wiped  away  the 
tear,  even  with  his  shroud. 


THE      WEDDING     KNELL.  49 

*  Beloved  of  my  youth/  said  he,  '  I  have  been  wild. 
The  despair  of  my  whole  lifetime  had  returned  at 
once,  and  maddened  me.  Forgive  ;  and  be  forgiven. 
Yes ;  it  is  evening  with  us  now ;  and  we  have  realized 
none  of  our  morning  dreams  of  happiness.  But  let  us 
join  our  hands  before  the  altar,  as  lovers,  whom  adverse 
circumstances  have  separated  through  life,  yet  who 
meet  again  as  they  are  leaving  it,  and  find  their  earth 
ly  affection  changed  into  something  holy  as  religion. 
And  what  is  Time,  to  the  married  of  Eternity  V 

Amid  the  tears  of  many,  and  a  swell  of  exalted 
sentiment,  in  those  who  felt  aright,  was  solemnized 
the  union  of  two  immortal  souls.  The  train  of  wither 
ed  mourners,  the  hoary  bridegroom  in  his  shroud,  the 
pale  features  of  the  aged  bride,  and  the  death-bell  toll 
ing  through  the  whole,  till  its  deep  voice  overpowered 
the  marriage  words,  all  marked  the  mnerjjj  of  earthly 
hopes.  But  as  the  ceremony  proceeded,  the  organ,  as 
if  stirred  by  the  sympathies  of  this  impressive  scene, 
poured  forth  an  anthem,  first  mingling  with  the  dismal 
knell,  then  rising  to  a  loftier  strain,  till  the  soul  look 
ed  down  upon  its  woe.  And  when  the  awful  rite  was 
finished,  and  with  cold  hand  in  cold  hand,  the  Married 
of  Eternity  withdrew,  the  organ's  peal  of  solemn 
triumph  drowned  the  Wedding  Knell, 


THE   MINISTER'S   BLACK  VEIL. 


THE    MINISTER'S    BLACK    VEIL 


A     PARABLE/ 


THE  sexton  stood  in  the  porch  of  Milford  meeting 
house,  pulling  lustily  at  the  bell-rope.  The  old  people 
of  the  village  came  stooping  along  the  street.  Child 
ren,  with  bright  faces,  tript  merrily  beside  their  parents, 
or  mimicked  a  graver  gait,  in  the  conscious  dignity  of 
their  Sunday  clothes.  Spruce  bachelors  looked  side 
long  at  the  pretty  maidens,  and  fancied  that  the  sab 
bath  sunshine  made  them  prettier  than  on  week-days. 
When  the  throng  had  mostly  streamed  into  the  porch, 
the  sexton  began  to  toll  the  bell,  keeping  his  eye  on 

*  Another  clergyman  in  New  England,  Mr.  Joseph  Moody, 
of  York,  Maine,  who  died  about  eighty  years  since,  made  him 
self  remarkable  by  the  same  eccentricity  that  is  here  related  of 
the  Reverend  Mr.  Hooper.  In  his  case,  however,  the  symbol 
had  a  different  import.  In  early  life  he  had  accidentally  killed 
a  beloved  friend ;  and  from  that  day  till  the  hour  of  his  own 
death,  he  hid  his  face  from  men. 


54         THE    MINISTER'S    BLACK    VEIL. 

the  Reverend  Mr.  Hooper's  door.  The  first  glimpse 
of  the  clergyman's  figure  was  the  signal  for  the  bell  to 
cease  its  summons. 

'  But  what  has  good  Parson  Hooper  got  upon  his 
face '?'  cried  the  sexton  in  astonishment. 

All  within  hearing  immediately  turned  about,  and 
beheld  the  semblance  of  Mr.  Hooper,  pacing  slowly 
his  meditative  way  towards  the  meeting-house.  With 
one  accord  they  started,  expressing  more  wonder  than 
if  some  strange  minister  were  coming  to  dust  the 
cushions  of  Mr.  Hooper's  pulpit. 

*  Are  you  sure  it  is  our  parson  V  inquired  Goodman 
Gray  of  the  sexton. 

'  Of  a  certainty  it  is  good  Mr.  Hooper,'  replied  the 
sexton.  '  He  was  to  have  exchanged  pulpits  with 
Parson  Shute  of  Westbury  ;  but  Parson  Shute  sent  to 
excuse  himself  yesterday,  being  to  preach  a  funeral 
sermon.' 

The  cause  of  so  much  amazement  may  appear 
sufficiently  slight.  Mr.  Hooper,  a  gentlemanly  person 
of  about  thirty,  though  still  a  bachelor,  was  dressed 
with  due  clerical  neatness,  as  if  a  careful  wife  had 
starched  his  band,  and  brushed  the  weekly  dust  from 
his  Sunday's  garb.  There  was  but  one  thing  remark 
able  in  his  appearance.  Swathed  about  his  forehead, 
and  hanging  down  over  his  face,  so  low  as  to  be  shaken 
by  his  breath,  Mr.  Hooper  had  on  a  black  veil.  On  a 
nearer  view,  it  seemed  to  consist  of  two  folds  of  crape, 
which  entirely  concealed  his  features,  except  the  mouth 


THE    MINISTER'S    BLACK    VEIL.         55 

and  chin,  but  probably  did  not  intercept  his  sight, 
farther  than  to  give  a  darkened  aspect  to  all  living  and 
inanimate  things.  With  this  gloomy  shade  before  him, 
good  Mr.  Hooper  walked  onward,  at  a  slow  and  quiet 
pace,  stooping  somewhat  and  looking  on  the  ground, 
as  is  customary  with  abstracted  men,  yet  nodding 
kindly  to  those  of  his  parishioners  who  still  waited  on 
the  meeting-house  steps.  But  so  wonder-struck  were 
they,  that  his  greeting  hardly  met  with  a  return. 

"'  I  can't  really  feel  as  if  good  Mr.  Hooper's  face  was 
behind  that  piece  of  crape,'  said  the  sexton. 

'  I  don't  like  it,'  muttered  an  old  woman,  as  she 
hobbled  into  the  meeting-house.  'He  has  changed 
himself  into  something  awful,  only  by  hiding  his  face.' 

*  Our  parson  has  gone  mad  !'  cried  Goodman  Gray, 
following  him  across  the  threshold. 

A  rumor  of  some  unaccountable  phenomenon  had 
preceded  Mr.  Hooper  into  the  meeting-house,  and  set 
all  the  congregation  astir.  Few  could  refrain  from 
twisting  their  heads  towards  the  door  ;  many  stood  up 
right,  and  turned  directly  about ;  while  several  little 
boys  clambered  upon  the  seats,  and  came  down  again 
with  a«terrible  racket.  There  was  a  general  bustle,  a 
rustling  of  the  women's  gowns  and  shuffling  of  the 
men's  feet,  greatly  at  variance  with  that  hushed  repose 
which  should  attend  the  entrance  of  the  minister.  But 
Mr.  Hooper  appeared  not  to. notice  the  perturbation  of 
his  people.  He  entered  with  an  almost  noiseless  step, 
bent  his  head  mildly  to  the  pews  on  each  side,  and 


56        THE    MINISTER'S    BLACK    VEIL. 

bowed  as  he  passed  his  oldest  parishioner,  a  white- 
haired  great-grandsire,  who  occupied  an  arm-chair  in 
the  centre  of  the  aisle.  It  was  strange  to  observe, 
how  slowly  this  venerable  man  became  conscious  of 
something  singular  in  the  appearance  of  his  pastor. 
He  seemed  not  fully  to  partake  of  the  prevailing  won 
der,  till  Mr.  Hooper  had  ascended  the  stairs,  and 
showed  himself  in  the  pulpit,  face  to  face  with  his  con 
gregation,  except  for  the  black  veil.  That  mysterious 
emblem  was  never  once  withdrawn.  It  shook  with 
his  measured  breath  as  he  gave  out  the  psalm  ;  it  threw 
its  obscurity  between  him  and  the  holy  page,  as  he 
read  the  Scriptures  ;  and  while  he  prayed,  the  veil  lay 
heavily  on  his  uplifted  countenance.  Did  he  seek  to 
hide  it  from  the  dread  Being  whom  he  was  address 
ing? 

Such  was  the  effect  of  this  simple  piece  of  crape, 
that  more  than  one  woman  of  delicate  nerves  was  forc 
ed  to  leave  the  meeting-house.  Yet  perhaps  the  pale- 
faced  congregation  was  almost  as  fearful  a  sight  to  the 
minister,  as  his  black  veil  to  them. 

Mr.  Hooper  had  the  reputation  of  a  good  preacher, 
but  not  an  energetic  one  :  he  strove  to  win  his  people 
heavenward,  by  mild  persuasive  influences,  rather  than 
to  drive  them  thither,  by  the  thunders  of  the  Word. 
The  sermon  which  he  now  delivered,  was  marked  by 
the  same  characteristics  of  style  and  manner,  as  the 
general  series  of  his  pulpit  oratory.  But  there  was 
something,  either  in  the  sentiment  of  the  discourse 


THE    MINISTER'S    BLACK    VEIL.       57 

itself,  or  in  the  imagination  of  the  auditors,  which 
made  it  greatly  the  most  powerful  effort  that  they  had 
ever  heard  from  their  pastor's  lips.  It  was  tinged, 
rather  more  darkly  than  usual,  with  the  gentle  gloom 
of  Mr.  Hooper's  temperament.  The  subject  had  re 
ference  to  secret  sin,  and  those  sad  mysteries  which 
we  hide  from  our  nearest  and  dearest,  and  would  fain 
conceal  from  our  own  consciousness,  even  forgetting 
that  the  Omniscient  can  detect  them.  A  subtle  power 
was  breathed  into  his  words.  Each  member  of  the 
congregation,  the  most  innocent  girl,  and  the  man  of 
hardened  breast,  felt  as  if  the  preacher  had  crept  upon 
them,  behind  his  awful  veil,  and  discovered  their  hoard 
ed  iniquity  of  deed  or  thought.  Many  spread  their 
clasped  hands  on  their  bosoms.  There  was  nothing 
terrible  in  what  Mr.  Hooper  said ;  at  least,  no  violence  ; 
and  yet,  with  every  tremor  of  his  melancholy  voice, 
the  hearers  quaked.  An  unsought  pathos  came  hand 
in  hand  with  awe.  So  sensible  were  the  audience  of 
some  unwonted  attribute  in  their  minister,  that  they 
longed  for  a  breath  of  wind  to  blow  aside  the  veil, 
almost  believing  that  a  stranger's  visage  would  be  dis 
covered,  though  the  form,  gesture,  and  voice  were 
those  of  Mr.  Hooper. 

At  the  close  of  the  services,  the  people  hurried  out 
with  indecorous  confusion,  eager  to  communicate  their 
pent-up  amazement,  and  conscious  of  lighter  spirits, 
the  moment  they  lost  sight  of  the  black  veil.  Some 
gathered  in  little  circles,  huddled  closely  together,  with 
E 


58       THE    MINISTER'S    BLACK    VEIL. 

their  mouths  all  whispering  in  the  centre ;  some  went 
homeward  alone,  wrapt  in  silent  meditation;  some 
talked  loudly,  and  profaned  the  Sabbath-day  with 
ostentatious  laughter.  A  few  shook  their  sagacious 
heads,  intimating  that  they  could  penetrate  the  mystery  ; 
while  one  or  two  affirmed  that  there  was  no  mystery  at 
all,  but  only  that  Mr.  Hooper's  eyes  were  so  weaken 
ed  by  the  midnight  lamp,  as  to  require  a  shade.  After 
a  brief  interval,  forth  came  good  Mr.  Hooper  also,  in 
the  rear  of  his  flock.  Turning  his  veiled  face  from 
one  group  to  another,  he  paid  due  reverence  to  the 
hoary  heads,  saluted  the  middle-aged  with  kind  dignity, 
as  their  friend  and  spiritual  guide,  greeted  the  young 
with  mingled  authority  and  love,  and  laid  his  hands 
on  the  little  children's  heads  to  bless  them.  Such 
was  always  his  custom  on  the  Sabbath-day.  Strange 
and  bewildered  looks  repaid  him  for  his  courtesy. 
None,  as  on  former  occasions,  aspired  to  the  honor  of 
walking  by  their  pastor's  side.  Old  Squire  Saunders, 
doubtless  by  an  accidental  lapse  of  memory,  neglected 
to  invite  Mr.  Hooper  to  his  table,  where  the  good 
clergyman  had  been  wont  to  bless  the  food,  almost 
every  Sunday  since  his  settlement.  He  returned, 
therefore,  to  the  parsonage,  and,  at  the  moment  of 
closing  the  door,  was  observed  to  look  back  upon  the 
people,  all  of  whom  had  their  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
minister.  A  sad  smile  gleamed  faintly  from  beneath 
the  black  veil,  and  flickered  about  his  mouth,  glimmer 
ing  as  he  disappeared. 


BLACK      VEIL.          59 

'  How  strange,'  said  a  lady,  '  that  a  simple  black 
veil,  such  as  any  woman  might  wear  on  her  bonnet, 
should  become  such  a  terrible  thing  on  Mr.  Hooper's 
face  !' 

'  Something  must  surely  be  amiss  with  Mr.  Hooper's 
intellects,'  observed  her  husband,  the  physician  of  the 
village.  '  But  the  strangest  part  of  the  affair  is  the 
effect  of  this  vagary,  even  on  a  sober-minded  man  like 
myself.  The  black  veil,  though  it  covers  only  our 
pastor's  face,  throws  its  influence  over  his  whole  per 
son,  and  makes  him  ghost-like  from  head  to  foot.  Do 
you  not  feel  it  so?' 

'  Truly  do  I,'  replied  the  lady  ;  (  and  I  would  not  be 
alone  with  him  for  the  world.  I  wonder  he  is  not 
afraid  to  be  alone  with  himself!' 

'  Men  sometimes  are  so,'  said  her  husband. 

The  afternoon  service  was  attended  with  similar  cir 
cumstances.  At  its  conclusion,  the  bell  tolled  for  the 
funeral  of  a  young  lady.  The  relatives  and  friends 
were  assembled  in  the  house,  and  the  more  distant 
acquaintances  stood  about  the  door,  speaking  of  the 
good  qualities  of  the  deceased,  when  their  talk  was 
interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Hooper,  still 
covered  with  his  black  veil.  It  was  now  an  appropri 
ate  emblem.  The  clergyman  stepped  into  the  room 
where  the  corpse  was  laid,  and  bent  over  the  coffin, 
to  take  a  last  farewell  of  his  deceased  parishioner. 
As  he  stooped,  the  veil  hung  straight  down  from  his 
forehead,  so  that,  if  her  eye-lids  had  not  been  closed 


60       THE    MINISTER'S    BLACK    VEIL. 

for  ever,  the  dead  maiden  might  have  seen  his  face. 
Could  Mr.  Hooper  be  fearful  of  her  glance,  that  he  so 
hastily  caught  back  the  black  veil  1  A  person,  who 
watched  the  interview  between  the  dead  and  living, 
scrupled  not  to  affirm,  that,  at  the  instant  when  the 
clergyman's  features  were  disclosed,  the  corpse  had 
slightly  shuddered,  rustling  the  shroud  and  muslin  cap, 
though  the  countenance  retained  the  composure  of 
death.  A  superstitious  old  woman  was  the  only  wit 
ness  of  this  prodigy.  From  the  coffin,  Mr.  Hooper 
passed  into  the  chamber  of  the  mourners,  and  thence 
to  the  head  of  the  staircase,  to  make  the  funeral 
prayer.  It  was  a  tender  and  heart-dissolving  prayer, 
full  of  sorrow,  yet  so  imbued  with  celestial  hopes,  that 
the  music  of  a  heavenly  harp,  swept  by  the  ringers  of 
the  dead,  seemed  faintly  to  be  heard  among  the  sad 
dest  accents  of  the  minister.  The  people  trembled, 
though  they  but  darkly  understood  him,  when  he  pray 
ed  that  they,  and  himself,  and  all  of  mortal  race,  might 
be  ready,  as  he  trusted  this  young  maiden  had  been, 
for  the  dreadful  hour  that  should  snatch  the  veil  from 
their  faces.  The  bearers  went  heavily  forth,  and  the 
mourners  followed,  saddening  all  the  street,  with  the 
dead  before  them,  and  Mr.  Hooper  in  his  black  veil 
behind. 

'  Why  do  you  look  back  ?'  said  one  in  the  procession 
to  his  partner. 

'  I  had  a  fancy,'  replied  she,  '  that  the  minister  and 
the  maiden's  spirit  were  walking  hand  in  hand.' 


THE    MINISTER'S    BLACK    VEIL.       61 

1  And  so  had  I,  at  the  same  moment/  said  the 
other. 

That  night,  the  handsomest  couple  in  Milford  village 
were  to  be  joined  in  wedlock.  Though  reckoned  a 
melancholy  man,  Mr.  Hooper  had  a  placid  cheerful 
ness  for  such  occasions,  which  often  excited  a  sympa 
thetic  smile,  where  livelier  merriment  would  have  been 
thrown  away.  There  was  no  quality  of  his  disposition 
which  made  him  more  beloved  than  this.  The  com 
pany  at  the  wedding  awaited  his  arrival  with  impatience 
trusting  that  the  strange  awe,  which  had  gathered 
over  him  throughout  the  day,  would  now  be  dispelled. 
But  such  was  not  the  result.  When  Mr.  Hooper  came, 
the  first  thing  that  their  eyes  rested  on  was  the  same 
horrible  black  veil,  which  had  added  deeper  gloom  to 
the  funeral,  and  could  portend  nothing  but  evil  to  the 
wedding.  Such  was  its  immediate  effect  on  the  guests, 
that  a  cloud  seemed  to  have  rolled  duskily  from  beneath 
the  black  crape,  and  dimmed  the  light  of  the  candles. 
The  bridal  pair  stood  up  before  the  minister.  But  the 
bride's  cold  fingers  quivered  in  the  tremulous  hand  of 
the  bridegroom,  and  her  death-like  paleness  caused  a 
whisper,  that  the  maiden  who  had  been  buried  a  few 
hours  before,  was  come  from  her  grave  to  be  married. 
If  ever  another  wedding  were  so  dismal,  it  was  that 
famous  one,  where  they  tolled  the  wedding-knell. 
After  performing  the  ceremony,  Mr.  Hooper  raised 
a  glass  of  wine  to  his  lips,  wishing  happiness  to  the 
new-married  couple,  in  a  strain  of  mild  pleasantry  that 

E* 


62       THE    MINISTER'S    BLACK    VEIL. 

ought  to  have  brightened  the  features  of  the  guests, 
like  a  cheerful  gleam  from  the  hearth.  At  that  in 
stant,  catching  a  glimpse  of  his  figure  in  the  looking- 
glass,  the  black  veil  involved  his  own  spirit  in  the 
horror  with  which  it  overwhelmed  all  others.  His 
frame  shuddered — his  lips  grew  white — he  spilt  the 
untasted  wine  upon  the  carpet — and  rushed  forth  into 
the  darkness.  For  the  Earth,  too,  had  on  her  Black 
Veil. 

The  next  day,  the  whole  village  of  Milford  talked  of 
little  else  than  Parson  Hooper's  black  veil.  That, 
and  the  mystery  concealed  behind  it,  supplied  a  topic 
for  discussion  between  acquaintances  meeting  in  the 
street,  and  good  women  gossiping  at  their  open  win 
dows.  It  was  the  first  item  of  news  that  the  tavern- 
keeper  told  to  his  guests.  The  children  babbled  of  it 
on  their  way  to  school.  One  imitative  little  imp 
covered  his  face  with  an  old  black  handkerchief,  there 
by  so  affrighting  his  playmates,  that  the  panic  seized 
himself,  and  he  well  nigh  lost  his  wits  by  his  own 
waggery. 

It  was  remarkable,  that,  of  all  the  busy-bodies  and 
impertinent  people  in  the  parish,  not  one  ventured  to 
put  the  plain  question  to  Mr.  Hooper,  wherefore  he 
did  this  thing.  Hitherto,  whenever  there  appeared  the 
slightest  call  for  such  interference,  he  had  never  lack 
ed  advisers,  nor  shown  himself  averse  to  be  guided  by 
their  judgment.  If  he  erred  at  all,  it  was  by  so  pain 
ful  a  degree  of  self-distrust,  that  even  the  mildest  cen- 


THE    MINISTER'S    BLACK    VEIL.       63 

sure  would  lead  him  to  consider  an  indifferent  action 
as  a  crime.  Yet,  though  so  well  acquainted  with  this 
amiable  weakness,  no  individual  among  his  parish 
ioners  chose  to  make  the  black  veil  a  subject  of  friend 
ly  remonstrance.  There  was  a  feeling  of  dread,  nei 
ther  plainly  confessed  nor  carefully  concealed,  which 
caused  each  to  shift  the  responsibility  upon  another, 
till  at  length  it  was  found  expedient  to  send  a  deputa 
tion  of  the  church,  in  order  to  deal  with  Mr.  Hooper 
about  the  mystery,  before  it  should  grow  into  a  scan 
dal.  Never  did  an  embassy  so  ill  discharge  its  duties. 
The  minister  received  them  with  friendly  courtesy, 
but  became  silent,  after  they  were  seated,  leaving  to 
his  visiters  the  whole  burthen  of  introducing  their  im 
portant  business.  The  topic,  it  might  be  supposed, 
was  obvious  enough.  There  was  the  black  veil, 
swathed  round  Mr.  Hooper's  forehead,  and  concealing 
every  feature  above  his  placid  mouth,  on  which,  at 
times,  they  could  perceive  the  glimmering  of  a  melan 
choly  smile.  But  that  piece  of  crape,  to  their  imagi 
nation,  seemed  to  hang  down  before  his  heart,  the 
symbol  of  a  fearful  secret  between  him  and  them. 
Were  the  veil  but  cast  aside,  they  might  speak  freely 
of  it,  but  not  till  then.  Thus  they  sat  a  considerable 
time,  speechless,  confused,  and  shrinking  uneasily 
from  Mr.  Hooper's  eye,  which  they  felt  to  be  fixed 
upon  them  with  an  invisible  glance.  Finally,  the  de 
puties  returned  abashed  to  their  constituents,  pronoun 
cing  the  matter  too  weighty  to  be  handled,  except  by 


64        THE    MINISTER'S    BLACK    VEIL. 

a  council  of  the  churches,  if,  indeed,  it  might  not  re 
quire  a  general  synod. 

But  there  was  one  person  in  the  village,  unappalled 
by  the  awe  with  which  the  black  veil  had  impressed 
all  beside  herself.  When  the  deputies  returned  with 
out  an  explanation,  or  even  venturing  to  demand  one, 
she,  with  the  calm  energy  of  her  character,  determined 
to  chase  away  the  strange  cloud  that  appeared  to  be 
settling  round  Mr.  Hooper,  every  moment  more  darkly 
than  before.  As  his  plighted  wife,  it  should  be  her 
privilege  to  know  what  the  black  veil  concealed.  At 
the  minister's  first  visit,  therefore,  she  entered  upon 
the  subject,  with  a  direct  simplicity,  which  made  the 
task  easier  both  for  him  and  her.  After  he  had  seated 
himself,  she  fixed  her  eyes  steadfastly  upon  the  veil, 
but  could  discern  nothing  of  the  dreadful  gloom  that 
had  so  overawed  the  multitude :  it  was  but  a  double 
fold  of  crape,  hanging  down  from  his  forehead  to  his 
mouth,  and  slightly  stirring  with  his  breath. 

•  No,'  said  she  aloud,  and  smiling,  '  there  is  nothing 
terrible  in  this  piece  of  crape,  except  that  it  hides  a 
face  which  I  am  always  glad  to  look  upon.     Come, 
good  sir,  let  the  sun  shine  from  behind  the  cloud. 
First  lay  aside  your  black  veil :  then  tell  me  why  you 
put  it  on.' 

Mr.  Hooper's  smile  glimmered  faintly. 

*  There  is  an  hour  to  come,'  said  he,  '  when  all  of  us 
shall  cast  aside  our  veils.     Take  it  not  amiss,  beloved 
friend,  if  I  wear  this  piece  of  crape  till  then.' 


THE    MINISTER'S    BLACK    VEIL.        65 

1  Your  words  are  a  mystery  too/  returned  the  young 
lady.  '  Take  away  the  veil  from  them,  at  least.' 

'  Elizabeth,  I  will,'  said  he,  '  so  far  as  my  vow  may 
suffer  me.  Know,  then,  this  veil  is  a  type  and  a  sym 
bol,  and  I  am  bound  to  wear  it  ever,  both  in  light  and 
darkness,  in  solitude  and  before  the  gaze  of  multitudes, 
and  as  with  strangers,  so  with  my  familiar  friends. 
No  mortal  eye  will  see  it  withdrawn.  This  dismal 
shade  must  separate  me  from  the  world :  even  you, 
Elizabeth,  can  never  come  behind  it !' 

'What  grievous  affliction  hath  befallen  you,'  she 
earnestly  inquired,  'that  you  should  thus  darken  your 
eyes  for  ever?' 

'  If  it  be  a  sign  of  mourning,'  replied  Mr.  Hooper, 
'  I,  perhaps,  like  most  other  mortals,  have  sorrows  dark 
enough  to  be  typified  by  a  black  veil.' 

'  But  what  if  the  world  will  not  believe  that  it  is  the 
type  of  an  innocent  sorrow  ? '  urged  Elizabeth.  '  Be 
loved  and  respected  as  you  are,  there  may  be  whispers, 
that  you  hide  your  face  under  the  consciousness  of 
secret  sin.  For  the  sake  of  your  holy  office,  do  away 
this  scandal !' 

The  color  rose  into  her  cheeks,  as  she  intimated 
the  nature  of  the  rumors  that  were  already  abroad  in 
the  village.  But  Mr.  Hooper's  mildness  did  not  for 
sake  him.  He  even  smiled  again — that  same  sad  smile, 
which  always  appeared  like  a  faint  glimmering  of  light, 
proceeding  from  the  obscurity  beneath  the  veil. 

'  If  I  hide  my  face  for  sorrow,  there  is  cause  enough,' 


66       THE    MINISTER'S    BLACK    VEIL. 

he  merely  replied ;  (  and  if  I  cover  it  for  secret  sin, 
what  mortal  might  not  do  the  same  ?' 

And  with  this  gentle,  but  unconquerable  obstinacy, 
did  he  resist  all  her  entreaties.  At  length  Elizabeth 
sat  silent.  For  a  few  moments  she  appeared  lost  in 
thought,  considering,  probably,  what  new  methods 
might  be  tried,  to  withdraw  her  lover  from  so  dark  a 
fantasy,  which,  if  it  had  no  other  meaning,  was  perhaps 
a  symptom  of  mental  disease.  Though  of  a  firmer 
character  than  his  own,  the  tears  rolled  down  her 
cheeks.  But,  in  an  instant,  as  it  were,  a  new  feeling 
took  the  place  of  sorrow  :  her  eyes  were  fixed  insensi 
bly  on  the  black  veil,  when,  like  a  sudden  twilight  in 
the  air,  its  terrors  fell  around  her.  She  arose,  and 
stood  trembling  before  him. 

'  And  do  you  feel  it  then  at  last  ?'  said  he  mourn 
fully. 

She  made  no  reply,  but  covered  her  eyes  with  her 
hand,  and  turned  to  leave  the  room.  He  rushed  for 
ward  and  caught  her  arm. 

'  Have  patience  with  me,  Elizabeth  !'  cried  he  pas 
sionately.  '  Do  not  desert  me,  though  this  veil  must 
be  between  us  here  on  earth  Be  mine,  and  here 
after  there  shall  be  no  veil  over  my  face,  no  darkness 
between  our  souls  !  It  is  but  a  mortal  veil — it  is  not 
for  eternity  !  Oh  !  you  know  not  how  lonely  I  am,  and 
how  frightened,  to  be  alone  behind  my  black  veil.  Do 
not  leave  me  in  this  miserable  obscurity  for  ever  !' 

'  Lift  the  veil  but  once,  and  look  me  in  the  face/ 
said  she. 


THE    MINISTER'S    BLACK    VEIL.       67 

'  Never  !     It  cannot  be  !'  replied  Mr.  Hooper. 

'  Then,  farewell !'  said  Elizabeth. 

She  withdrew  her  arm  from  his  grasp,  and  slowly 
departed,  pausing  at  the  door,  to  give  one  long,  shud 
dering  gaze,  that  seemed  almost  to  penetrate  the 
mystery  of  the  black  veil.  But,  even  amid  his  grief, 
Mr.  Hooper  smiled  to  think  that  only  a  material  em 
blem  had  separated  him  from  happiness,  though  the 
horrors  which  it  shadowed  forth,  must  be  drawn  dark 
ly  between  the  fondest  of  lovers. 

From  that  time  no  attempts  were  made  to  remove 
Mr.  Hooper's  black  veil,  or,  by  a  direct  appeal,  to  dis 
cover  the  secret  which  it  was  supposed  to  hide.  By 
persons  who  claimed  a  superiority  to  popular  preju 
dice,  it  was  reckoned  merely  an  eccentric  whim,  such 
as  often  mingles  with  the  sober  actions  of  men  other 
wise  rational,  and  tinges  them  all  with  its  own  sem 
blance  of  insanity.  But  with  the  multitude,  good  Mr. 
Hooper  was  irreparably  a  bugbear.  He  could  not 
walk  the  street  with  any  peace  of  mind,  so  conscious 
was  he  that  the  gentle  and  timid  would  turn  aside  to 
avoid  him,  and  that  others  would  make  it  a  point  of 
hardihood  to  throw  themselves  in  his  way.  The  im 
pertinence  of  the  latter  class  compelled  him  to  give 
up  his  customary  walk,  at  sunset,  to  the  burial  ground ; 
for  when  he  leaned  pensively  over  the  gate,  there 
would  always  be  faces  behind  the  grave-stones,  peep 
ing  at  his  black  veil.  A  fable  went  the  rounds,  that 
the  stare  of  the  dead  people  drove  him  thence.  It 


68       THE    MINISTER'S    BLACK    VEIL. 

grieved  him,  to  the  very  depth  of  his  kind  heart,  to 
observe  how  the  children  fled  from  his  approach, 
breaking  up  their  merriest  sports,  while  his  melancholy 
figure  was  yet  afar  off.  Their  instinctive  dread  caused 
him  to  feel,  more  strongly  than  aught  else,  that  a 
preternatural  horror  was  interwoven  with  the  threads 
of  the  black  crape.  In  truth,  his  own  antipathy  to 
the  veil  was  known  to  be  so  great,  that  he  never  will 
ingly  passed  before  a  mirror,  nor  stooped  to  drink  at 
a  still  fountain,  lest,  in  its  peaceful  bosom,  he  should 
be  affrighted  by  himself.  This  was  what  gave  plausi 
bility  to  the  whispers,  that  Mr.  Hooper's  conscience 
tortured  him  for  some  great  crime,  too  horrible  to  be 
entirely  concealed,  or  otherwise  than  so  obscurely  in 
timated.  Thus,  from  beneath  the  black  veil,  there 
rolled  a  cloud  into  the  sunshine,  an  ambiguity  of  sin 
or  sorrow,  which  enveloped  the  poor  minister,  so  that 
love  or  sympathy  could  never  reach  him.  It  was  said, 
that  ghost  and  fiend  consorted  with  him  there.  With 
self-shudderings  and  outward  terrors,  he  walked  con 
tinually  in  its  shadow,  groping  darkly  within  his  own 
soul,  or  gazing  through  a  medium  that  saddened  the 
whole  world.  Even  the  lawless  wind,  it  was  believed, 
respected  his  dreadful  secret,  and  never  blew  aside  the 
veil.  But  still  good  Mr.  Hooper  sadly  smiled,  at  the 
pale  visages  of  the  worldly  throng  as  he  passed  by. 

Among  all  its  bad  influences,  the  black  veil  had  the 
one  desirable  effect,  of  making  its  wearer  a  very 
efficient  clergyman.  By  the  aid  of  his  mysterious  em- 


THE    MINISTER'S    BLACK    VEIL.        69 

blem — for  there  was  no  other  apparent  cause — he  be 
came  a  man  of  awful  power,  over  souls  that  were  in 
agony  for  sin.  His  converts  always  regarded  him  with 
a  dread  peculiar  to  themselves,  affirming,  though  but 
figuratively,  that,  before  he  brought  them  to  celestial 
light,  they  had  been  with  him  behind  the  black  veil. 
Its  gloom,  indeed,  enabled  him  to  sympathize  with  all 
dark  affections.  Dying  sinners  cried  aloud  for  Mr. 
Hooper,  and  would  not  yield  their  breath  till  he  ap 
peared  ;  though  ever,  as  he  stooped  to  whisper  con 
solation,  they  shuddered  at  the  veiled  face  so  near 
their  own.  Such  were  the  terrors  of  the  black  veil, 
even  when  death  had  bared  his  visage !  Strangers 
came  long  distances  to  attend  service  at  his  church, 
with  the  mere  idle  purpose  of  gazing  at  his  figure,  be 
cause  it  was  forbidden  them  to  behold  his  face.  But 
many  were  made  to  quake  ere  they  departed !  Once, 
during  Governor  Belcher's  administration,  Mr.  Hooper 
was  appointed  to  preach  the  election  sermon.  Cover 
ed  with  his  black  veil,  he  stood  before  the  chief  magis 
trate,  the  council,  and  the  representatives,  and  wrought 
so  deep  an  impression,  that  the  legislative  measures  of 
that  year,  were  characterized  by  all  the  gloom  and 
piety  of  our  earliest  ancestral  sway. 

In  this  manner  Mr.  Hooper  spent  a  long  life,  irre 
proachable  in  outward  act,  yet  shrouded  in  dismal 
suspicions ;  kind  and  loving,  though  unloved,  and 
dimly  feared;  a  man  apart  from  men,  shunned  in 
their  health  and  joy,  but  ever  summoned  to  their  aid 


70        THE    MINISTER'S    BLACK    VEIL. 

in  mortal  anguish.  As  years  wore  on,  shedding  their 
snows  above  his  sable  veil,  he  acquired  a  name  through 
out  the  New  England  churches,  and  they  called  him 
Father  Hooper.  Nearly  all  his  parishioners,  who 
were  of  mature  age  when  he  was  settled,  had  been 
borne  away  by  many  a  funeral  :  he  had  one  congrega 
tion  in  the  church,  and  a  more  crowded  one  in  the 
church-yard ;  and  having  wrought  so  late  into  the 
evening,  and  done  his  work  so  well,  it  was  now  good 
Father  Hooper's  turn  to  rest. 

Several  persons  were  visible  by  the  shaded  candle 
light,  in  the  death-chamber  of  the  old  clergyman. 
Natural  connexions  he  had  none.  But  there  was  the 
decorously  grave,  though  unmoved  physician,  seeking 
only  to  mitigate  the  last  pangs  of  the  patient  whom  he 
could  not  save.  There  were  the  deacons,  and  other 
eminently  pious  members  of  his  church.  There, 
also,  ,was  the  Reverend  Mr.  Clark,  of  Westbury,  a 
young  and  zealous  divine,  who  had  ridden  in  haste  to 
pray  by  the  bed-side  of  the  expiring  minister.  There 
was  the  nurse,  no  hired  handmaiden  of  death,  but  one 
whose  calm  affection  had  endured  thus  long,  in  secrecy, 
in  solitude,  amid  the  chill  of  age,  and  would  not  perish, 
even  at  the  dying  hour.  Who,  but  Elizabeth  !  And 
there  lay  the  hoary  head  of  good  Father  Hooper  upon 
the  death-pillow,  with  the  black  veil  still  swathed  about 
his  brow  and  reaching  down  over  his  face,  so  that 
each  more  difficult  gasp  of  his  faint  breath  caused  it 
to  stir.  All  through  life  that  piece  of  crape  had  hung 


THE    MINISTER'S    BLACK    VEIL.        71 

between  him  and  the  world  :  it  had  separated  him 
from  cheerful  brotherhood  and  woman's  love,  and  kept 
him  in  that  saddest  of  all  prisons,  his  own  heart ;  and 
still  it  lay  upon  his  face,  as  if  to  deepen  the  gloom  of 
his  darksome  chamber,  and  shade  him  from  the  sun 
shine  of  eternity. 

For  some  time  previous,  his  mind  had  been  con 
fused,  wavering  doubtfully  between  the  past  and  the 
present,  and  hovering  forward,  as  it  were,  at  intervals, 
into  the  indistinctness  of  the  world  to  come.  There 
had  been  feverish  turns,  which  tossed  him  from  side 
to  side,  and  wore  away  what  little  strength  he  had. 
But  in  his  most  convulsive  struggles,  and  in  the  wildest 
vagaries  of  his  intellect,  when  no  other  thought  retain 
ed  its  sober  influence,  he  still  showed  an  awful  solici 
tude  lest  the  black  veil  should  slip  aside.  Even  if  his 
bewildered  soul  could  have  forgotten,  there  was  a 
faithful  woman  at  his  pillow,  who,  with  averted  eyes, 
would  have  covered  that  aged  face,  which  she  had  last 
beheld  in  the  comeliness  of  manhood.  At  length  the 
death-stricken  old  man  lay  quietly  in  the  torpor  of 
mental  and  bodily  exhaustion,  with  an  imperceptible 
pulse,  and  breath  that  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  except 
when  a  long,  deep,  and  irregular  inspiration  seemed  to 
prelude  the  flight  of  his  spirit. 

The  minister  of  Westbury  approached  the  bedside. 

'  Venerable  Father  Hooper,'  said  he,  '  the  moment 
of  your  release  is  at  hand.  Are  you  ready  for  the 
lifting  of  the  veil,  that  shuts  in" time  from  eternity?' 


72       THE    MINISTER'S    BLACK    VEIL. 

Father  Hooper  at  first  replied  merely  by  a  feeble 
motion  of  his  head ;  then,  apprehensive,  perhaps,  that 
his  meaning  might  be  doubtful,  he  exerted  himself  to 
speak. 

'  Yea,'  said  he,  in  faint  accents,  *  my  soul  hath  a 
patient  weariness  until  that  veil  be  lifted.' 

'  And  is  it  fitting,'  resumed  the  Reverend  Mr.  Clark, 
'  that  a  man  so  given  to  prayer,  of  such  a  blameless 
example,  holy  in  deed  and  thought,  so  far  as  mortal 
judgment  may  pronounce  ;  is  it  fitting  that  a  father  in 
the  church  should  leave  a  shadow  on  his  memory,  that 
may  seem  to  blacken  a  life  so  pure  ?  I  pray  you,  my 
venerable  brother,  let  not  this  thing  be  !  Suffer  us  to 
be  gladdened  by  your  triumphant  aspect,  as  you  go  to 
your  reward.  Before  the  veil  of  eternity  be  lifted,  let 
me  cast  aside  this  black  veil  from  your  face  !' 

And  thus  speaking,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Clark  bent 
forward  to  reveal  the  mystery  of  so  many  years.  But, 
exerting  a  sudden  energy,  that  made  all  the  beholders 
stand  aghast,  Father  Hooper  snatched  both  his 
hands  from  beneath  the  bed-clothes,  and  pressed  them 
strongly  on  the  black  veil,  resolute  to  struggle,  if 
the  minister  of  Westbury  would  contend  with  a  dying 
man. 

'Never!'  cried  the  veiled  clergyman.  '  On  earth, 
never  !' 

'  Dark  old  man  !'  exclaimed  the  affrighted  minister, 
'  with  what  horrible  crime  upon  your  soul  are  you  now 
passing  to  the  judgment  ?' 


THE    MINISTER'S    BLACK    VEIL.        73 

Father  Hooper's  breath  heaved;  it  rattled  in  his 
throat ;  but,  with  a  mighty  effort,  grasping  forward 
with  his  hands,  he  caught  hold  of  life,  and  held  it  back 
till  he  should  speak.  He  even  raised  himself  in  bed ; 
and  there  he  sat,  shivering  with  the  arms  of  death 
around  him,  while  the  black  veil  hung  down,  awful, 
at  that  last  moment,  in  the  gathered  terrors  of  a  life 
time.  And  yet  the  faint,  sad  smile,  so  often  there, 
now  seemed  to  glimmer  from  its  obscurity,  and  linger 
on  Father  Hooper's  lips. 

'  Why  do  you  tremble  at  me  alone  ?'  cried  he,  turn 
ing  his  veiled  face  round  the  circle  of  pale  spectators. 
'  Tremble  also  at  each  other  !  Have  men  avoided 
me,  and  women  shown  no  pity,  and  children  screamed 
and  fled,  only  for  my  black  veil?  What,  but  the 
mystery  which  it  obscurely  typifies,  has  made  this 
piece  of  crape  so  awful  ?  When  the  friend  shows  his 
inmost  heart  to  his  friend ;  the  lover  to  his  best-belov 
ed  ;  when  man  does  not  vainly  shrink  from  the  eye  of 
his  Creator,  loathsomely  treasuring  up  the  secret  of  his 
sin ;  then  deem  me  a  monster,  for  the  symbol  beneath 
which  I  have  lived,  and  die !  I  look  around  me,  and, 
lo !  on  every  visage  a  Black  Veil  1' 

While  his  auditors  shrank  from  one  another,  in 
mutual  affright,  Father  Hooper  fell  back  upon  his 
pillow,  a  veiled  corpse,  with  a  faint  smile  lingering  on 
the  lips.  Still  veiled,  they  laid  him  in  his  coffin,  and 
a  veiled  corpse  they  bore  him  to  the  grave.  The 
grass  of  many  years  has  sprung  up  and  withered  on 
F* 


r 


<  4  THE      MINISTERS      BLACK      VEIL. 

that  grave,  the  burial-stone  is  moss-grown,  and  good 
Mr.  Hooper's  face  is  dust;  but  awful  is  still  the 
thought,  that  it  mouldered  beneath  the  Black  Veil ! 


THE    MAY-POLE    OF    MERRY 
MOUNT. 


THE  MAY-POLE  OF  MERRY 
MOUNT. 


There  is  an  admirable  foundation  for  a  philosophic  romance,  in  the 
curious  history  of  the  early  settlement  of  Mount  Wollaston,  or  Merry 
Mount.  In  the  slight  sketch  here  attempted,  the  facts,  recorded  on  the 
grave  pages  of  our  New  England  annalists,  have  wrought  themselves,  almost 
spontaneously,  into  a  sort  of  allegory.  The  masques,  mummeries,  and 
festive  customs,  described  in  the  text,  are  in  accordance  with  the  manners 
of  the  age.  Authority,  on  these  points  may  be  found  in  Strutt's  Book  of 
English  Sports  and  Pastimes. 

BRIGHT  were  the  days  at  Merry  Mount,  when  the 
May-Pole  was  the  banner-staff  of  that  gay  colony  ! 
They  who  reared  it,  should  their  banner  be  triumphant, 
were  to  pour  sun-shine  over  New  England's  rugged 
hills,  and  scatter  flower-seeds  throughout  the  soil. 
Jollity  and  gloom  were  contending  for  an  empire. 
Midsummer  eve  had  come,  bringing  deep  verdure  to 
the  forest,  and  roses  in  her  lap,  of  a  more  vivid  hue 
than  the  tender  buds  of  Spring.  But  May,  or  her 


78      THE      MAY-POLE      OF      MERR1T      MOUNT. 

mirthful  spirit,  dwelt  all  the  year  round  at  Merry 
Mount,  sporting  with  the  Summer  months,  and  revel 
ling  with  Autumn,  and  basking  in  the  glow  of  Winter's 
fireside.  Through  a  world  of  toil  and  care,  she  flitted 
with  a  dreamlike  smile,  and  came  hither  to  find  a 
home  among  the  lightsome  hearts  of  Merry  Mount. 

Never  had  the  May-Pole  been  so  gaily  decked  as  at 
sunset  on  midsummer  eve.  This  venerated  emblem 
was  a  pine  tree,  which  had  preserved  the  slender  grace 
of  youth,  while  it  equalled  the  loftiest  height  of  the 
old  wood  monarchs.  From  its  top  streamed  a  silken 
banner,  colored  like  the  rainbow.  Down  nearly  to 
the  ground,  the  pole  was  dressed  with  birchen  boughs, 
and  others  of  the  liveliest  green,  and  some  with  silvery 
leaves,  fastened  by  ribbons  that  fluttered  in  fantastic 
knots  of  twenty  different  colors,  but  no  sad  ones. 
Garden  flowers,  and  blossoms  of  the  wilderness,  laugh 
ed  gladly  forth  amid  the  verdure,  so  fresh  and  dewy, 
that  they  must  have  grown  by  magic  on  that  happy 
pine  tree.  Where  this  -green  and  flowery  splendor 
terminated,  the  shaft  of  the  May-Pole  was  stained  with 
the  seven  brilliant  hues  of  the  banner  at  its  top.  On 
the  lowest  green  bough  hung  an  abundant  wreath  of 
roses,  some  that  had  been  gathered  in  the  sunniest 
spots  of  the  forest,  and  others,  of  still  richer  blush, 
which  the  colonists  had  reared  from  English  seed. 
Oh,  people  of  the  Qolden  Age,  the  chief  of  your  hus 
bandry,  was  to  raise  flowers  ! 

But  what  was  the  wild  throng  that  stood  hand  in 


• 

•f-   '  ' 

THE   MAY-POLE   OF   MERRY   MOUNT.   79 

hand  about  the  May-Pole  1  It  could  not  be,  that  the 
Fauns  and  Nymphs,  when  driven  from  their  classic 
groves  and  homes  of  ancient  fable,  had  sought  refuge, 
as  all  the  persecuted  did,  in  the  fresh  woods  of  the 
West.  These  were  Gothic  monsters,  though  perhaps 
of  Grecian  ancestry.  On  the  shoulders  of  a  comely 
youth,  uprose  the  head  and  branching  antlers  of  a 
stag ;  a  second,  human  in  all  other  points,  had  the 
grim  visage  of  a  wolf;  a  third,  still  with  the  trunk  and 
limbs  of  a  mortal  man,  showed  the  beard  and  horns  of 
a  venerable  he-goat.  There  was  the  likeness  of  a 
bear  erect,  brute  in  all  but  his  hind  legs,  which  were 
adorned  with  pink  silk  stockings.  And  here  again, 
almost  as  wondrous,  stood  a  real  bear  of  the  dark 
forest,  lending  each  of  his  fore  paws  to  the  grasp  of  a 
human  hand,  and  as  ready  for  the  dance  as  any  in  that 
circle.  His  inferior  nature  rose  half-way,  to  meet 
his  companions  as  they  stooped.  Other  faces  wore 
the  similitude  of  man  or  woman,  but  distorted  or 
extravagant,  with  red  noses  pendulous  before  their 
mouths,  which  seemed  of  awful  depth,  and  stretched 
from  ear  to  ear  in  an  eternal  fit  of  laughter.  Here 
might  be  seen  the  Salvage  Man,  well  known  in  herald 
ry,  hairy  as  a  baboon,  and  girdled  with  green  leaves. 
By  his  side,  a  nobler  figure,  but  still  a  counterfeit, 
appeared  an  Indian  hunter,  with  feathery  crest  and 
wampum  belt.  Many  of  this  strange  company  wore 
fools-caps,  and  had  little  bells  appended  to  their  gar 
ments,  tinkling  with  a  silvery  sound,  responsive  to  the 


. 

80  THE   MAY-POLE   OF   MERRY   MOUNT. 

inaudible  music  of  their  gleesome  spirits.  Some  youths 
and  maidens  were  of  soberer  garb,  yet  well  maintained 
their  places  in  the  irregular  throng,  by  the  expression 
of  wild  revelry  upon  their  features.  Such  were  the 
colonists  of  Merry  Mount,  as  they  stood  in  the  broad 
smile  of  sunset,  round  their  venerated  May-Pole. 

Had  a  wanderer,  bewildered  in  the  melancholy 
forest,  heard  their  mirth,  and  stolen  a  half-affrighted 
glance,  he  might  have  fancied  them  the  crew  of 
Comus,  some  already  transformed  to  brutes,  some 
midway  between  man  and  beast,  and  the  others  rioting 
in  the  flow  of  tipsy  jollity  that  foreran  the  change. 
But  a  band  of  Puritans,  who  watched  the  scene,  invis 
ible  themselves,  compared  the  masques  to  those  devils 
and  ruined  souls,  with  whom  their  superstition  peopled 
the  black  wilderness. 

Within  the  ring  of  monsters,  appeared  the  two  air 
iest  forms,  that  had  ever  trodden  on  any  more  solid 
footing  than  a  purple  and  golden  cloud.  One  was  a 
youth,  in  glistening  apparel,  with  a  scarf  of  the  rain 
bow  pattern  crosswise  on  his  breast.  His  right  hand 
held  a  gilded  staff,  the  ensign  of  high  dignity  among 
the  revellers,  and  his  left  grasped  the  slender  fingers 
of  a  fair  maiden,  not  Jess  gaily  decorated  than  himself. 
Bright  roses  glowed  in  contrast  with  the  dark  and 
glossy  curls  of  each,  and  were  scattered  round  their 
feet,  or  had  sprung  up  spontaneously  there.  Behind 
this  lightsome  couple,  so  close  to  the  May-Pole  that  its 
boughs  shaded  his  jovial  face,  stood  the  figure  of  an 


THE   MAY-POLE   OF   MERRY   MOUNT.  81 

English  priest,  canonically  dressed,  yet  decked  with 
flowers,  in  Heathen  fashion,  and  wearing  a  chaplet  of 
the  native  vine  leaves.  By  the  riot  of  his  rolling  eye, 
and  the  pagan  decorations  of  his  holy  garb,  he  seemed 
the  wildest  monster  there,  and  the  very  Comus  of  the 
crew. 

{  Votaries  of  the  May-Pole,'  cried  the  flower-decked 
priest,  '  merrily,  all  day  long,  have  the  woods  echoed  to 
your  mirth.  But  be  this  your  merriest  hour,  my  hearts  ! 
Lo,  here  stand  the  Lord  and  Lady  of  the  May,  whom  I, 
a  clerk  of  Oxford,  and  high-priest  of  Merry  Mount,  am 
presently  to  join  in  holy  matrimony.  Up  with  your 
nimble  spirits,  ye  morrice-dancers,  green  men,  and  glee- 
maidens,  bears  and  wolves,  and  horned  gentlemen ! 
Come ;  a  chorus  now,  rich  with  the  old  mirth  of  Merry 
England,  and  the  wilder  glee  of  this  fresh  forest ;  and 
then  a  dance,  to  show  the  youthful  pair  what  life  is  made 
of,  and  how  airily  they  should  go  through  it !  All 
ye  that  love  the  May-Pole,  lend  your  voices  to  the 
nuptial  song  of  the  Lord  and  Lady  of  the  May !' 

This  wedlock  was  more  serious  than  most  affairs  of 
Merry  Mount,  where  jest  and  delusion,  trick  and  fantasy, 
kept  up  a  continual  carnival.  The  Lord  and  Lady  of 
the  May,  though  their  titles  must  be  laid  down  at  sunset, 
were  really  and  truly  to  be  partners  for  the  dance  of 
life,  beginning  the  measure  that  same  bright  eve.  The 
wreath  of  roses,  that  hung  from  the  lowest  green  bough 
of  the  May-Pole,  had  been  twined  for  them,  and  would 
be  thrown  over  both  their  heads,  in  symbol  of  their 

G 


82  THE  MAY-POLE  OF  MERRY   MOUNT. 

flowery  union.  When  the  priest  had  spoken,  therefore, 
a  riotous  uproar  burst  from  the  rout  of  monstrous 
figures. 

'  Begin  you  the  stave,  reverend  Sir,'  cried  they  all  ; 
'  and  never  did  the  woods  ring  to  such  a  merry  peal,  as 
we  of  the  May-Pole  shall  send  up  !' 

Immediately  a  prelude  of  pipe,  cittern,  and  viol, 
touched  with  practised  minstrelsy,  began  to  play  from  a 
neighboring  thicket,  in  such  a  mirthful  cadence,  that  the 
boughs  of  the  May-Pole  quivered  to  the  sound.  But 
the  May  Lord,  he  of  the  gilded  staff,  chancing  to  look 
into  his  Lady's  eyes,  was  wonderstruck  at  the  almost 
pensive  glance  that  met  his  own. 

'  Edith,  sweet  Lady  of  the  May,'  whispered  he,  re 
proachfully,  '  is  yon  wreath  of  roses  a  garland  to  hang 
above  our  graves,  that  you  look  so  sad  ?  Oh,  Edith,  this 
is  our  golden  time !  Tarnish  it  not  by  any  pensive 
shadow  of  the  mind  ;  for  it  may  be,  that  nothing  of 
futurity  will  be  brighter  than  the  mere  remembrance 
of  what  is  now  passing.' 

'  That  was  the  very  thought  that  saddened  me  !  How 
came  it  in  your  mind  too  ?'  said  Edith,  in  a  stiJl  lower 
tone  than  he ;  for  it  was  high  treason  to  be  sad  at  Merry 
Mount.  '  Therefore  do  I  sigh  amid  this  festive  music. 
And  besides,  dear  Edgar,  I  struggle  as  with  a  dream, 
and  fancy  that  these  shapes  of  our  jovial  friends  are 
Tisionary,  and  their  mirth  unreal,  and  that  we  are  no 
true  Lord  and  Lady  of  the  May.  What  is  the  mystery 
in  my  heart  ?' 


THE  MAY-POLE   OF   MERRY   MOUNT.   83 

Just  then,  as  if  a  spell  had  loosened  them,  down  came 
a  little  shower  of  withering  rose  leaves  from  the  May- 
Pole.  Alas,  for  the  young  lovers  !  No  sooner  had 
their  hearts  glowed  with  real  passion,  than  they  were 
sensible  of  something  vague  and  unsubstantial  in  their 
former  pleasures,  and  felt  a  dreary  presentiment  of 
inevitable  change.  From  the  moment  that  they  truly 
loved,  they  had  subjected  themselves  to  earth's  doom 
of  care,  and  sorrow,  and  troubled  joy,  and  had  no 
more  a  home  at  Merry  Mount.  That  was  Edith's 
mystery.  Now  leave  we  the  priest  to  marry  them, 
and  the  masquers  to  sport  round  the  May-Pole,  till  the 
last  sunbeam  be  withdrawn  from  its  summit,  and  the 
shadows  of  the  forest  mingle  gloomily  in  the  dance. 
Meanwhile,  we  may  discover  who  these  gay  people 
were. 

Two  hundred  years  ago,  and  more,  the  old  world  and 
its  inhabitants  became  mutually  weary  of  each  other. 
Men  voyaged  by  thousands  to  the  West ;  some  to  barter 
glass  beads,  and  such  like  jewels,  for  the  furs  of  the 
Indian  hunter ;  some  to  conquer  virgin  empires ;  and 
one  stern  band  to  pray.  But  none  of  these  motives 
had  much  weight  with  the  colonists  of  Merry  Mount. 
Their  leaders  were  men  who  had  sported  so  long  with 
life,  that  when  Thought  and  Wisdom  came,  even  these 
unwelcome  guests  were  led  astray,  by  the  crowd  of 
vanities  which  they  should  have  put  to  flight.  Erring 
Thought  and  perverted  Wisdom  were  made  to  put  on 
masques,  and  play  the  fool..  The  men  of  whom  we 


84  THE   MAY-POLE   OF  MERRY  MOUNT. 

speak,  after  losing  the  heart's  fresh  gaiety,  imagined  a 
wild  philosophy  of  pleasure,  and  came  hither  to  act 
out  their  latest  day-dream.  They  gathered  followers 
from  all  that  giddy  tribe,  whose  whole  life  is  like 
the  festal  days  of  soberer  men.  In  their  train  were 
minstrels,  not  unknown  in  London  streets ;  wandering 
players,  whose  theatres  had  been  the  halls  of  noble 
men  ;  mummers,  rope-dancers,  and  mountebanks,  who 
would  long  be  missed  at  wakes,  church-ales,  and 
fairs;  in  a  word,  mirth-makers  of  every  sort,  such  as 
abounded  in  that  age,  but  now  began  to  be  discoun 
tenanced  by  the  rapid  growth  of  Puritanism.  Light 
had  their  footsteps  been  on  land,  and  as  lightly  they 
came  across  the  sea.  Many  had  been, maddened  by 
their  previous  troubles  into  a  gay  despair  ;  others  were 
as  madly  gay  in  the  flush  of  youth,  like  the  May  Lord 
and  his  Lady  ;  but  whatever  might  be  the  quality  of 
their  mirth,  old  and  young  were  gay  at  Merry  Mount. 
The  young  deemed  themselves  happy.  The  elder 
spirits,  if  they  knew  that  mirth  was  but  the  counterfeit 
of  happiness,  yet  followed  the  false  shadow  wilfully, 
because  at  least  her  garments  glittered  brightest. 
Sworn  triflers  of  a  life-time,  they  would  not  venture 
among  the  sober  truths  of  life,  not  even  to  be  truly 
blest. 

All  the  hereditary  pastimes  of  Old  England* were 
transplanted  hither.  The  King  of  Christinas  was  duly 
crowned,  and  the  Lord  of  Misrule  bore  potent  sway. 
On  the  eve  of  Saint  John,  they  felled  whole  acres  of 

'.-_  ••-.•" 


THE   MAY-POLE   OP   MERRY   MOUNT.  85 

the  forest  to  make  bonfires,  and  danced  by  the  blaze 
all  night,  crowned  with  garlands,  and  throwing  flowers 
into  the  flame.  At  harvest  time,  though  their  crop 
was  of  the  smallest,  they  made  an  image  with  the 
sheaves  of  Indian  corn,  and  wreathed  it  with  autumnal 
garlands,  and  bore  it  home  triumphantly.  But  what 
chiefly  characterized  the  colonists  of  Merry  Mount, 
was  their  veneration  for  the  May-Pole.  It  has  made 
their  true  history  a  poet's  tale.  Spring  decked  the 
hallowed  emblem  with  young  blossoms  and  fresh  green 
boughs ;  Summer  brought  roses  of  the  deepest  blush, 
and  the  perfected  foliage  of  the  forest ;  Autumn  en 
riched  it  with  that  red  and  yellow  gorgeousness,  which 
converts  each  wild-wood  leaf  into  a  painted  flower ; 
and  Winter  silvered  it  with  sleet,  and  hung  it  round 
with  icicles,  till  it  flashed  in  the  cold  sunshine,  itself 
a  frozen  sunbeam.  Thus  each  alternate  season  did 
homage  to  the  May-Pole,  and  paid  it  a  tribute  of  its 
own  richest  splendor.  Its  votaries  danced  round  it, 
once,  at  least,  in  every  month ;  sometimes  they  called 
it  their  religion,  or  their  altar ;  but  always,  it  was  the 
banner-staff  of  Merry  Mount. 

Unfortunately,  there  were  men  in  the  new  world,  of 
u  sterner  faith  than  these  May-Pole  worshipers.  Not 
far  from  Merry  Mount  was  a  settlement  of  Puritans, 
most  dismal  wretches,  who  said  their  prayers  before 
daylight,  and  then  wrought  in  the  forest  or  the  corn 
field,  till  evening  made  it  prayer  time  again.  Their 
weapons  were  always  at  hand,  to  shoot  down  the 


86  THE   MAY-POLE   OF   MERRY   MOUNT. 

straggling  savage.  When  they  met  in  conclave,  it  was 
never  to  keep  up  the  old  English  mirth,  but  to  hear 
sermons  three  hours  long,  or  to  proclaim  bounties  on 
the  heads  of  wolves  and  the  scalps  of  Indians.  Their 
festivals  were  fast-days,  and  their  chief  pastime  the 
singing  of  psalms.  Woe  to  the  youth  or  maiden,  who 
did  but  dream  of  a  dance  !  The  selectman  nodded  to 
the  constable  ;  and  there  sat  the  light-heeled  reprobate 
in  the  stocks ;  or  if  he  danced,  it  was  round  the 
whipping-post,  which  might  be  termed  the  Puritan 
May-Pole. 

A  party  of  these  grim  Puritans,  toiling  through  the 
difficult  woods,  each  with  a  horse-load  of  iron  armor 
to  burthen  his  footsteps,  would  sometinies  draw  near 
the  sunny  precincts  of  Merry  Mount.  There  were  the 
silken  colonists,  sporting  round  their  May-Pole ;  per 
haps  teaching  a  bear  to  dance,  or  striving  to  communi 
cate  their  mirth  to  the  grave  Indian ;  or  masquerading 
in  the  skins  of  deer  and  wolves,  which  they  had  hunted 
for  that  especial  purpose.  Often,  the  whole  colony 
were  playing  at  blindman's  buff,  magistrates  and  all 
with  their  eyes  bandaged,  except  a  single  scape-goat, 
whom  the  blinded  sinners  pursued  by  the  tinkling  of 
the  bells  at  his  garments.  Once,  it  is  said,  they  were 
seen  following  a  flower-decked  corpse,  with  merriment 
and  festive  music,  to  his  grave.  But  did  the  dead 
man  laugh?  In  their  quietest  times,  they  sang  ballads 
and  told  tales,  for  the  edification  of  their  pious  visiters ; 
or  perplexed  them  with  juggling  tricks  ;  or  grinned  at 


THE   MAY-POLE   OP   MERRY   MOUNT.   87 

;' 
them  through  horse-collars;  and  when  sport  itself  grew 

wearisome,  they  made  game  of  their  own  stupidity, 
and  began  a  yawning  match.  At  the  very  least  of 
these  enormities,  the  men  of  iron  shook  their  heads 
and  frowned  so  darkly,  that  the  revellers  looked  up, 
imagining  that  a  momentary  cloud  had  overcast  the 
sunshine,  which  was  to  be  perpetual  there.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  Puritans  affirmed,  that,  when  a  psalm 
was  pealing  from  their  place  of  worship,  the  echo, 
which  the  forest  sent  them  back,  seemed  often  like  the 
chorus  of  a  jolly  catch,  closing  with  a  roar  of  laughter. 
Who  but  the  fiend,  and  his  bond-slaves,  the  crew  of 
Merry  Mount,  had  thus  disturbed  them  !  In  due  time, 
a  feud  arose,  stern  and  bitter  on  one  side,  and  as 
serious  on  the  other  as  any  thing  could  be,  among 
such  light  spirits  as  had  sworn  allegiance  to  the  May- 
Pole.  The  future  complexion  of  New  England  was 
involved  in  this  important  quarrel.  Should  the  grisly 
saints  establish  their  jurisdiction  over  the  gay  sinners, 
then  would  their  spirits  darken  all  the  clime,  and  make 
it  a  land  of  clouded  visages,  of  hard  toil,  of  sermon 
and  psalm,  for  ever.  But  should  the  banner-staff  of 
Merry  Mount  be  fortunate,  sunshine  would  break  upon 
the  hills,  and  flowers  would  beautify  the  forest,  and 
late  posterity  do  homage  to  the  May-Pole  ! 

After  these  authentic  passages  from  history,  we 
return  to  the  nuptials  of  the  Lord  and  Lady  of  the 
May.  Alas !  we  have  delayed  too  long,  and  must 
darken  our  tale  too  suddenly.  As  we  glance  again 


88   THE   MAY-POLE   OF   MERRY   MOUNT. 

at  the  May-Pole,  a  solitary  sun-beam  is  fading  from 
the  summit,  and  leaves  only  a  faint  golden  tinge, 
blended  with  the  hues  of  the  rainbow  banner.  Even 
that  dim  light  is  now  withdrawn,  relinquishing  the 
whole  domain  of  Merry  Mount  to  the  evening  gloom, 
which  has  rushed  so  instantaneously  from  the  black 
surrounding  woods.  But  some  of  these  black  shadows 
have  rushed  forth  in  human  shape. 

Yes  :  with  the  setting  sun,  the  last  day  of  mirth  had 
passed  from  Merry  Mount.  The  ring  of  gay  masquers 
was  disordered  and  broken ;  the  stag  lowered  his  ant 
lers  in  dismay ;  the  wolf  grew  weaker  than  a  lamb ; 
the  bells  of  the  morrice-dancers  tinkled  with  tremu 
lous  affright.  The  Puritans  had  played  a  characteristic 
part  in  the  May-Pole  mummeries.  Their  darksome 
figures  were  intermixed  with  the  wild  shapes  of  their 
foes,  and  made  the  scene  a  picture  of  the  moment, 
when  waking  thoughts  start  up  amid  the  scattered 
fantasies  of  a  dream.  The  leader  of  the  hostile  party 
stood  in  the  centre  of  the  circle,  while  the  rout  of 
monsters  cowered  around  him,  like  evil  spirits  in  the 
presence  of  a  dread  magician.  No  fantastic  foolery 
could  look  him  in  the  face.  So  stern  was  the  energy 
of  his  aspect,  that  the  whole  man,  visage,  frame,  and 
soul,  seemed  wrought  of  iron,  gifted  with  life  and 
thought,  yet  all  of  one  substance  with  his  head-piece 
and  breast-plate.  It  was  the  Puritan  of  Puritans  ;  it 
was  Endicott  himself! 

'  Stand  off,  priest  of  Baal  !'    said  he,  with  a  grim 


• 


THE   MAY-POLE   OF   MERRY   MOUNT.  89 

frown,  and  laying  no  reverent  hand  upon  the  surplice. 
'  I  know  thee,  Blackstone  !*  Thou  art  the  man,  who 
couldst  not  abide  the  rule  even  of  thine  own  corrupted 
church,  and  hast  come  hither  to  preach  iniquity,  and 
to  give  example  of  it  in  thy  life.  But  now  shall  it  be 
seen  that  the  Lord  hath  sanctified  this  wilderness  for 
his  peculiar  people.  Woe  unto  them  that  would  defile 
it !  And  first,  for  this  flower-decked  abomination,  the 
altar  of  thy  worship!' 

And  with  his  keen  sword,  Endicott  assaulted  the 
hallowed  May-Pole.  Nor  long  did  it  resist  his  arm. 
It  groaned  with  a  dismal  sound  ;  it  showered  leaves 
and  rose-buds  upon  the  remorseless  enthusiast;  and 
finally,  with  all  its  green  boughs,  and  ribbons,  and 
flowers,  symbolic  of  departed  pleasures,  down  fell  the 
banner-staff  of  Merry  Mount.  As  it  sank,  tradition 
says,  the  evening  sky  grew  darker,  and  the  woods 
threw  forth  a  more  sombre  shadow. 

'  There,'  cried  Endicott,  looking  triumphantly  on 
his  work,  '  there  lies  the  only  May-Pole  in  New- 
England  !  The  thought  is  strong  within  me,  that,  by 
its  fall,  is  shadowed  forth  the  fate  of  light  and  idle 
mirth-makers,  amongst  us  and  our  posterity.  Amen, 
saith  John  Endicott !' 

(  Amen  !'  echoed  his  followers. 


*Did  Governor  Endicott  speak  less  positively,  we  should  suspect  amis- 
take  here.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Blackstone,  though  an  eccentric,  is  not  known  to 
have  been  an  immoral  man.  We  rather  doubt  his  identity  with  the  priest 
of  Merry  Mount. 


90     THE      MAY -POLE      OF      MERRY      MOUNT. 

But  the  votaries  of  the  May-Pole  gave  one  groan 
for  their  idol.  At  the  sound,  the  Puritan  leader 
glanced  at  the  crew  of  Comus,  each  a  figure  of  broad 
mirth,  yet,  at  this  moment,  strangely  expressive  of 
sorrow  and  dismay. 

'  Valiant  captain,'  quoth  Peter  Palfrey,  the  Ancient 
of  the  band,  '  what  order  shall  be  taken  with  the  pris 
oners  ?' 

'  I  thought  not  to  repent  me  of  cutting  down  a  May- 
Pole,'  replied  Endicott,  l  yet  now  I  could  find  in  my 
heart  to  plant  it  again,  and  give  each  of  these  bestial 
pagans  one  other  dance  round  their  idol.  It  would 
have  served  rarely  for  a  whipping-post !' 

'  But  there  are  pine  trees  enow,'  suggested  the  lieu 
tenant. 

4  True,  good  Ancient,'  said  the  leader.  '  Where 
fore,  bind  the  heathen  crew,  and  bestow  on  them  a 
small  matter  of  stripes  apiece,  as  earnest  of  our  future 
justice.  Set  some  of  the  rogues  in  the  stocks  to  rest 
themselves,  so  soon  as  Providence  shall  bring  us  to 
one  of  our  own  well-ordered  settlements,  where  such 
accommodations  may  be  found.  Further  penalties, 
such  as  branding  and  cropping  of  ears,  shall  be  thought 
of  hereafter.' 

'  How  many  stripes  for  the  priest  T  inquired  Ancient 
Palfrey. 

'  None  as  yet,'  answered  Endicott,  bending  his  iron 
frown  upon  the  culprit.  '  It  must  be  for  the  Great  and 
General  Court  to  determine,  whether  stripes  and  long 


THE   MAY-POLE   OF   MERRY  MOUNT.   91 

imprisonment,  and  other  grievous  penalty,  may  atone 
for  his  transgressions.  Let  him  look  to  himself!  For 
such  as  violate  our  civil  order,  it  may  be  permitted  us 
to  show  mercy.  But  woe  to  the  wretch  that  troubleth 
our  religion  !' 

'  And  this  dancing  bear,'  resumed  the  officer.  '  Must 
he  share  the  stripes  of  his  fellows  V 

'  Shoot  him  through  the  head  !'  said  the  energetic 
Puritan.  '  I  suspect  witchcraft  in  the  beast.' 

'  Here  be  a  couple  of  shining  ones/  continued  Peter 
Palfrey,  pointing  his  weapon  at  the  Lord  and  Lady  of 
the  May.  '  They  seem  to  be  of  high  station  among 
these  misdoers.  Methinks  their  dignity  will  not  be 
fitted  with  less  than  a  double  share  of  stripes.' 

Endicott  rested  on  his  sword,  and  closely  surveyed 
the  dress  and  aspect  of  the  hapless  pair.  There  they 
stood,  pale,  downcast,  and  apprehensive.  Yet  there 
was  an  air  of  mutual  support,  and  of  pure  affection, 
seeking  aid  and  giving  it,  that  showed  them  to  be  man 
and  wife,  with  the  sanction  of  a  priest  upon  their  love. 
The  youth,  in  the  peril  of  the  moment,  had  dropped 
his  gilded  staff,  and  thrown  his  arm  about  the  Lady  of 
the  May,  who  leaned  against  his  breast,  too  lightly  to 
burthen  him,  but  with  weight  enough  to  express  that 
their  destinies  were  linked  together,  for  good  or  evil. 
They  looked  first  at  each  other,  and  then  into  the 
grim  captain's  face.  There  they  stood,  in  the  first 
hour  of  wedlock,  while  the  idle  pleasures,  of  which 
their  companions  where  the  emblems,  had  given  place 


92  THE   MAY-POLE   OF   MERRY   MOUNT. 

to  the  sternest  cares  of  life,  personified  by  the  dark 
Puritans.  But  never  had  their  youthful  beauty  seem 
ed  so  pure  and  high,  as  when  its  glow  was  chastened 
by  adversity. 

'  Youth,'  said  Endicott,  '  ye  stand  in  an  evil  case, 
thou  and  thy  maiden  wife.  Make  ready  presently ; 
for  I  am  minded  that  ye  shall  both  have  a  token  to 
remember  your  wedding-day !' 

'-  Stern  man,'  cried  the  May  Lord,  '  how  can  I 
move  thee  ?  Were  the  means  at  hand,  I  would  resist 
to  the  death.  Being  powerless,  I  entreat !  Do  with 
me  as  thou  wilt ;  but  let  Edith  go  untouched  !' 

1  Not  so,J  replied  the  immitigable  zealot.  '  We  are 
not  wont  to  show  an  idle  courtesy  to  that  sex,  which 
requireth  the  stricter  discipline.  What  sayest  thou, 
maid  ?  Shall  thy  silken  bridegroom  suffer  thy  share  of 
the  penalty,  besides  his  own  T 

'  Be  it  death,'  said  Edith,  '  and  lay  it  all  on  me  !' 

Truly,  as  Endicott  had  said,  the  poor  lovers  stood  in 
a  woeful  case.  Their  foes  were  triumphant,  their 
friends  captive  and  abased,  their  home  desolate,  the 
benighted  wilderness  around  them,  and  a  rigorous 
destiny,  in  the  shape  of  the  Puritan  leader,  their  only 
guide.  Yet  the  deepening  twilight  could  not  altogether 
conceal,  that  the  iron  man  was  softened  ;  he  smiled, 
at  the  fair  spectacle  of  early  love ;  he  almost  sighed, 
for  the  inevitable  blight  of  early  hopes. 

*  The  troubles  of  life  have  come  hastily  on  this 
young  couple,'  observed  Endicott.  '  We  will  see  how 


THE   MAY-POLE   OF  MERRY  MOUNT.   93 

they  comport  themselves  under  their  present  trials,  ere 
we  burthen  them  with  greater.  If,  among  the  spoil, 
there  be  any  garments  of  a  more  decent  fashion,  let 
them  be  put  upon  this  May  Lord  and  his  Lady,  instead 
of  their  glistening  vanities.  Look  to  it,  some  of  you.' 

'  And  shall  not  the  youth's  hair  be  cut  V  asked 
Peter  Palfrey,  looking  with  abhorrence  at  the  love-lock 
and  long  glossy  curls  of  the  young  man. 

'  Crop  it  forthwith,  and  that  in  the  true  pumpkin- 
shell  fashion,'  answered  the  captain.  '  Then  bring 
them  along  with  us,  but  more  gently  than  their  fellows. 
There  be  qualities  in  the  youth,  which  may  make  him 
valiant  to  fight,  and  sober  to  toil,  and  pious  to  pray ; 
and  in  the  maiden,  that  may  fit  her  to  become  a  mother 
in  our  Israel,  bringing  up  babes  in  better  nurture 
than  her  own  hath  been.  Nor  think  ye,  young  ones, 
that  they  are  the  happiest,  even  in  our  lifetime  of  a 
moment,  who  misspend  it  in  dancing  round  a  May- 
Pole  !' 

And  Endicott,  the  severest  Puritan  of  all  who  laid 
the  rock-foundation  of  New  England,  lifted  the  wreath 
of  roses  from  the  ruin  of  the  May-Pole,  and  threw  it, 
with  his  own  gauntleted  hand,  over  the  heads  of  the 
Lord  and  Lady  of  the  May.  It  was  a  deed  of  prophecy. 
As  the  moral  gloom  of  the  world  overpowers  all 
systematic  gaiety,  even  so  was  their  home  of  wild 
mirth  made  desolate  amid  the  sad  forest.  They  return 
ed  to  it  no  more.  But,  as  their  flowery  garland  was 
wreathed  of  the  brightest  roses  that  had  grown  there, 
H 


94       THE      MAY -POLE      OP      MERRY      MOUNT, 

so,  in  the  tie  that  united  them,  were  intertwined  all 
the  purest  and  best  of  their  early  joys.  They  went 
heavenward,  supporting  each  other  along  the  difficult 
path  which  it  was  their  lot  to  tread  and  never  wasted 
one  regretful  thought  on  the  vanities  of  Merry  Mount. 


THE    GENTLE    BOY 


THE    GENTLE    BOY. 


IN  the  course  of  the  year  1656,  several  of  the  people 
called  Quakers,  led,  as  they  professed,  by  the  inward 
movement  of  the  spirit,  made  their  appearance  in  New 
England.  Their  reputation,  as  holders  of  mystic  and 
pernicious  principles,  having  spread  before  them,  the 
Puritans  early  endeavored  to  banish,  and  to  prevent  the 
further  intrusion  of  the  rising  sect.  But  the  measures 
by  which  it  was  intended  to  purge  the  land  of  heresy, 
though  more  than  sufficiently  vigorous,  were  entirely 
unsuccessful.  The  Quakers,  esteeming  persecution  as 
a  divine  call  to  the  post  of  danger,  laid  claim  to  a  holy 
courage,  unknown  to  the  Puritans  themselves,  who 
had  shunned  the  cross,  by  providing  for  the  peaceable 
exercise  of  their  religion  in  a  distant  wilderness. 
Though  it  was  the  singular  fact,  that  every  nation  of 
the  earth  rejected  the  wandering  enthusiasts  who 
practised  peace  towards  all  men,  the  place  of  greatest 
H* 


98  THE      GENTLE     BOY. 

uneasiness  and  peril,  and  therefore  in  their  eyes  the 
most  eligible,  was  the  province  of  Massachusetts 
Bay. 

The  fines,  imprisonments,  and  stripes,  liberally  dis 
tributed  by  our  pious  forefathers ;  the  popular  antipathy, 
so  strong  that  it  endured  nearly  a  hundred  years  after 
actual  persecution  had  ceased,  were  attractions  as 
powerful  for  the  Quakers,  as  peace,  honor,  and  reward, 
would  have  been  for  the  worldly-minded.  Every  Euro 
pean  vessel  brought  new  cargoes  of  the  sect,  eager  to 
testify  against  the  oppression  which  they  hoped  to 
share;  and,  when  ship-masters  were  restrained  by 
heavy  fines  from  affording  them  passage,  they  made 
long  and  circuitous  journeys  through  the  Indian  coun 
try,  and  appeared  in  the  province  as  if  conveyed  by  a 
supernatural  power.  Their  enthusiasm,  heightened 
almost  to  madness  by  the  treatment  which  they  re 
ceived,  produced  actions  contrary  to  the  rules  of 
decency,  as  well  as  of  rational  religion,  and  presented 
a  singular  contrast  to  the  calm  and  staid  deportment 
of  their  sectarian  successors  of  the  present  day.  The 
command  of  the  spirit,  inaudible  except  to  the  soul, 
and  not  to  be  controverted  on  grounds  of  human  wis 
dom,  was  made  a  plea  for  most  indecorous  exhibitions, 
which,  abstractedly  considered,  well  deserved  the 
moderate  chastisement  of  the  rod.  These  extrava 
gances,  and  the  persecution  which  was  at  once  their 
cause  and  consequence,  continued  to  increase,  till,  in 
the  year  1659,  the  government  of  Massachusetts  Bay 


THE      GENTLE      BOY.  99 

indulged  two  members  of  the  Quaker  sect  with  the 
crown  of  martyrdom. 

An  indelible  stain  of  blood  is  upon  the  hands  of  all 
who  consented  to  this  act,  but  a  large  share  of  the 
awful  responsibility  must  rest  upon  the  person  then  at 
the  head  of  the  government.  He  was  a  man  of  narrow 
mind  and  imperfect  education,  and  his  uncompromising 
bigotry  was  made  hot  and  mischievous  by  violent  and 
hasty  passions  ;  he  exerted  his  influence  indecorously 
and  unjustifiably  to  compass  the  death  of  the  enthu 
siasts  ;  and  his  whole  conduct,  in  respect  to  them,  was 
marked  by  brutal  cruelty.  The  Quakers,  whose  re 
vengeful  feelings  were  not  less  deep  because  they  were 
inactive,  remembered  this  man  and  his  associates,  in 
after  times.  The  historian  of  the  sect  affirms  that,  by 
the  wrath  of  Heaven,  a  blight  fell  upon  the  land  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  '  bloody  town'  of  Boston,  so  that  no 
wheat  would  grow  there  ;  and  he  takes  his  stand,  as  it 
were,  among  the  graves  of  the  ancient  persecutors,  and 
triumphantly  recounts  the  judgments  that  overtook 
them,  in  old  age  or  at  the  parting  hour.  He  tells  us 
that  they  died  suddenly,  and  violently,  and  in  madness; 
but  nothing  can  exceed  the  bitter  mockery  with  which 
he  records  the  loathsome  disease,  and  *  death  by  rot 
tenness,'  of  the  fierce  and  cruel  governor. 
***** 

On  the  evening  of  the  autumn  day,  that  had  wit 
nessed  the  martyrdom  of  two  men  of  the  Quaker 
persuasion,  a  Puritan  settler  was  returning  from  the 


100  THE     GENTLE     BOY. 

metropolis  to  the  neighboring  country  town  in  which 
he  resided.  The  air  was  cool,  the  sky  clear,  and  the 
lingering  twilight  was  made  brighter  by  the  rays  of  a 
young  moon,  which  had  now  nearly  reached  the  verge 
of  the  horizon.  The  traveller,  a  man  of  middle  age, 
wrapped  in  a  grey  frieze  cloak,  quickened  his  pace 
when  he  had  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  for  a 
gloomy  extent  of  nearly  four  miles  lay  between  him 
and  his  home.  The  low,  straw-thatched  houses  were 
scattered  at  considerable  intervals  along  the  road,  and 
the  country  having  been  settled  but  about  thirty  years, 
the  tracts  of  original  forest  still  bore  no  small  propor 
tion  to  the  cultivated  ground.  The  autumn  wind 
wandered  among  the  branches,  whirling  away  the 
leaves  from  all  except  the  pine-trees,  and  moaning  as 
if  it  lamented  the  desolation  of  which  it  was  the  instru 
ment.  The  road  had  penetrated  the  mass  of  woods 
that  lay  nearest  to  the  town,  and  was  just  emerging 
into  an  open  space,  when  the  traveller's  ears  were 
saluted  by  a  sound  more  mournful  than  even  that  of 
the  wind.  It  was  like  the  wailing  of  some  one  in 
distress,  and  it  seemed  to  proceed  from  beneath  a  tall 
and  lonely  fir-tree,  in  the  centre  of  a  cleared,  but 
unenclosed  and  uncultivated  field.  The  Puritan  could 
not  but  remember  that  this  was  the  very  spot,  which 
had  been  made  accursed  a  few  hours  before,  by  the 
execution  of  the  Quakers,  whose  bodies  had  been 
thrown  together  into  one  hasty  grave,  beneath  the  tree 
on  which  they  suffered.  He  struggled,  however,  against 


THE     GENTLE     BOY.  101 

the  superstitious  fears  which  belonged  to  the  age,  and 
compelled  himself  to  pause  and  listen. 

'  The  voice  is  most  likely  mortal,  nor  have  I  cause 
to  tremble  if  it  be  otherwise/  thought  he,  straining  his 
eyes  through  the  dim  moonlight.  '  Methinks  it  is  like 
the  wailing  of  a  child  ;  some  infant,  it  may  be,  which 
has  strayed  from  its  mother,  and  chanced  upon  this 
place  of  death.  For  the  ease  of  mine  own  conscience, 
I  must  search  this  matter  out.' 

He  therefore  left  the  path,  and  walked  somewhat 
fearfully  across  the  field.  Though  now  so  desolate,  its 
soil  was  pressed  down  and  trampled  by  the  thousand 
footsteps  of  those  who  had  witnessed  the  spectacle  of 
that  day,  all  of  whom  had  now  retired,  leaving  the 
dead  to  their  loneliness.  The  traveller  at  length 
reached  the  fir-tree,  which  from  the  middle  upward 
was  covered  with  living  branches,  although  a  scaffold 
had  been  erected  beneath,  and  other  preparations 
made  for  the  work  of  death.  Under  this  unhappy  tree, 
which  in  after  times  was  believed  to  drop  poison  with 
its  dew,  sat  the  one  solitary  mourner  for  innocent 
blood.  It  was  a  slender  and  light-clad  little  boy,  who 
leaned  his  face  upon  a  hillock  of  fresh-turned  and 
half-frozen  earth,  and  wailed  bitterly,  yet  in  a  sup 
pressed  tone,  as  if  his  grief  might  receive  the  punish 
ment  of  crime.  The  Puritan,  whose  approach  had 
been  unperceived,  laid  his  hand  upon  the  child's 
shoulder,  and  addressed  him  compassionately. 

'  You  have  chosen  a  dreary  lodging,  my  poor  boy, 


102  THE      GENTLE      BOY. 

and  no  wonder  that  you  weep,'  said  he.  'But  dry 
your  eyes,  and  tell  me  where  your  mother  dwells.  I 
promise  you,  if  the  journey  be  not  too  far,  I  will  leave 
you  in  her  arms  to-night.' 

The  boy  had  hushed  his  wailing  at  once,  and  turned 
his  face  upward  to  the  stranger.  It  was  a  pale,  bright- 
eyed  countenance,  certainly  not  more  than  six  years 
old,  but  sorrow,  fear,  and  want,  had  destroyed  much 
of  its  infantile  expression.  The  Puritan,  seeing  the 
boy's  frightened  gaze,  and  feeling  that  he  trembled 
under  his  hand,  endeavored  to  reassure  him. 

'Nay,  if  I  intended  to  do  you  harm,  little  lad,  the 
readiest  way  were  to  leave  you  here.  What !  you  do 
not  fear  to  sit  beneath  the  gallows  on  a  new-made 
grave,  and  yet  you  tremble  at  a  friend's  touch.  Take 
heart,  child,  and  tell  me  what  is  your  name,  and 
where  is  your  home  ?' 

'  Friend,'  replied  the  little  boy,  in  a  sweet,  though 
faltering  voice, '  they  call  me  Ilbrahim,  and  my  home 
is  here.' 

The  pale,  spiritual  face,  the  eyes  that  seemed  to 
mingle  with  the  moonlight,  the  sweet,  airy  voice,  and 
the  outlandish  name,  almost  made  the  Puritan  believe, 
that  the  boy  was  in  truth  a  being  which  had  sprung 
up  out  of  the  grave  on  which  he  sat.  But  perceiving 
that  the  apparition  stood  the  test  of  a  short  mental 
prayer,  and  remembering  that  the  arm  which  he  had 
touched  was  life-like,  he  adopted  a  more  rational  sup 
position.  '  The  poor  child  is  stricken  in  his  intellect,' 


THE      GENTLE      BOY.  103 

thought  he,  '  but  verily  his  words  are  fearful,  in  a 
place  like  this.'  He  then  spoke  soothingly,  intending 
to  humor  the  boy's  fantasy. 

'  Your  home  will  scarce  be  comfortable,  Ilbrahim, 
this  cold  autumn  night,  and  I  fear  you  are  ill  provided 
with  food.  I  am  hastening  to  a  warm  supper  and 
bed,  and  if  you  will  go  with  me,  you  shall  share 
them !' 

'  I  thank  thee,  friend,  but  though  T  be  hungry  and 
shivering  with  cold,  thou  wilt  not  give  me  food  nor 
lodging,'  replied  the  boy,  in  the  quiet  tone  which 
despair  had  taught  him,  even  so  young.  '  My  father 
was  of  the  people  whom  all  men  hate.  They  have 
laid  him  under  this  heap  of  earth,  and  here  is  my 
home.' 

The  Puritan,  who  had  laid  hold  of  little  Ilbrahim's 
hand,  relinquished  it  as  if  he  were  touching  a  loath 
some  reptile.  But  he  possessed  a  compassionate  heart, 
which  not  even  religious  prejudice  could  harden  into 
stone. 

'  God  forbid  that  I  should  leave  this  child  to  perish, 
though  he  comes  of  the  accursed  sect,'  said  he  to 
himself.  'Do  we  not  all  spring  from  an  evil  root? 
Are  we  not  all  in  darkness  till  the  light  doth  shine 
upon  us  1  He  shall  not  perish,  neither  in  body,  nor, 
if  prayer  and  instruction  may  avail  for  him,  in  soul.' 
He  then  spoke  aloud  and  kindly  to  Ilbrahim,  who  had 
again  hid  his  face  in  the  cold  earth  of  the  grave. 
'  Was  every  door  in  the  land  shut  against  you,  my 


104  THE      GENTLE      BOY. 

- 

'  '.w   •  V      --   *'  | 

child,   that   you   have  wandered  to   this   unhallowed 

spot?'  ;.T.-><f 

*  They  drove  me  forth  from  the  prison  when  they 
took  my  father  thence,'  said  the  boy,  '  and  I  stood  afar 
off,  watching  the  crowd  of  people,  and  when  they  were 
gone,  I  came   hither,  and   found  only  this  grave.     I 
knew  that  my  father  was  sleeping  here,  and  I  said,  this 
shall  be  my  home.' 

'  No,  child,  no  ;  not  while  I  have  a  roof  over  my 
head,  or  a  morsel  to  share  with  you  !'  exclaimed  the 
Puritan,  whose  sympathies  were  now  fully  excited. 
'  Rise  up  and  come  with  me,  and  fear  not  any  harm.' 

The  boy  wept  afresh,  and  clung  to  the  heap  of  earth, 
as  if  the  cold  heart  beneath  it  were  warmer  to  him 
than  any  in  a  living  breast.  The  traveller,  however, 
continued  to  entreat  him  tenderly,  and  seeming  to 
acquire  some  degree  of  confidence,  he  at  length  arose. 
But  his  slender  limbs  tottered  with  weakness,  his  little 
head  grew  dizzy,  and  he  leaned  against  the  tree  of 
death  for  support. 

*  My  poor  boy,  are  you  so  feeble  ?'  said  the  Puritan. 
'When  did  you  taste  food  last?' 

1 1  ate  of  bread  and  water  with  my  father  in  the 
prison,'  replied  Ilbrahim,  '  but  they  brought  him  none 
neither  yesterday  nor  to  day,  saying  that  he  had  eaten 
enough  to  bear  him  to  his  journey's  end.  Trouble  not 
thyself  for  my  hunger,  kind  friend,  for  I  have  lacked 
food  many  times  ere  now.' 

The  traveller  took  the  child  in  his   arms  and  wrap- 


THE      GENTLE      BOY.  105 

ped  his  cloak  about  him,  while  his  heart  stirred  with 
shame  and  anger  against  the  gratuitous  cruelty  of  the 
instruments  in  this  persecution.  In  the  awakened 
warmth  of  his  feelings,  he  resolved  that,  at  whatever 
risk,  he  would  not  forsake  the  poor  little  defenceless 
being  whom  Heaven  had  confided  to  his  care.  With 
this  determination,  he  left  the  accursed  field,  and 
resumed  the  homeward  path  from  which  the  wailing  of 
the  boy  had  called  him.  The  light  and  motionless 
burthen  scarcely  impeded  his  progress,  and  he  soon 
beheld  the  fire-rays  from  the  windows  of  the  cottage 
which  he,  a  native  of  a  distant  clime,  had  built  in  the 
western  wilderness.  It  was  surrounded  by  a  consid 
erable  extent  of  cultivated  ground,  and  the  dwelling 
was  situated  in  the  nook  of  a  wood-covered  hill, 
whither  it  seemed  to  have  crept  for  protection. 

1  Look  up,  child,'  said  the  Puritan  to  Ilbrahim,  whose 
faint  head  had  sunk  upon  his  shoulder ;  '  there  is  our 
home.' 

At  the  word  '  home,'  a  thrill  passed  through  the 
child's  frame,  but  he  continued  silent.  A  few  moments 
brought  them  to  the  cottage-door,  at  which  the  owner 
knocked  ;  for  at  that  early  period,  when  savages  were 
wandering  everywhere  among  the  settlers,  bolt  and 
bar  were  indispensable  to  the  security  of  a  dwelling. 
The  summons  was  answered  by  a  bond-servant,  a 
coarse-clad  and  dull-featured  piece  of  humanity,  who, 
after  ascertaining  that  his  master  was  the  applicant, 
undid  the  door,  and  held  a  flaring  pine-knot  torch  to 


106  THE      GENTLE      BOY. 

light  him  in.  Farther  back  in  the  passage-way,  the 
red  blaze  discovered  a  matronly  woman,  but  no  little 
crowd  of  children  came  bounding  forth  to  greet  their 
father's  return.  As  the  Puritan  entered,  he  thrust 
aside  his  cloak,  and  displayed  Ilbrahim's  face  to  the 
female. 

'  Dorothy,  here  is  a  little  outcast  whom  Providence 
hath  put  into  our  hands.'  observed  he.  '  Be  kind  to 
him,  even  as  if  he  were  of  those  dear  ones  who  have 
departed  from  us.' 

4  What  pale  and  bright-eyed  little  boy  is  this, 
Tobias  V  she  inquired.  '  Is  he  one  whom  the  wilder 
ness  folk  have  ravished  from  some  Christian  mother  V 
'  No,  Dorothy,  this  poor  child  is  no  captive  from 
the  wilderness,'  he  replied.  '  The  heathen  savage 
would  have  given  him  to  eat  of  his  scanty  morsel,  and 
to  drink  of  his  birchen  cup  ;  but  Christian  men,  alas  ! 
had  cast  him  out  to  die.' 

Then  he  told  her  how  he  had  found  him  beneath  the 
gallows,  upon  his  father's  grave  ;  and  how  his  heart 
had  prompted  him,  like  the  speaking  of  an  inward 
voice,  to  take  the  little  outcast  home,  and  be  kind  unto 
him.  He  acknowledged  his  resolution  to  feed  and 
clothe  him,  as  if  he  were  his  own  child,  and  to  afford 
him  the  instruction  which  should  counteract  the  per 
nicious  errors  hitherto  instilled  into  his  infant  mind. 
Dorothy  was  gifted  with  even  a  quicker  tenderness 
than  her  husband,  and  she  approved  of  all  his  doings 
and  intentions. 


THE      GENTLE      BOY.  107 

'  Have  you  a  mother,  dear  child  V  she  inquired. 

The  tears  burst  forth  from  his  full  heart,  as  he 
attempted  to  reply  ;  but  Dorothy  at  length  understood 
that  he  had  a  mother,  who,  like  the  rest  of  her  sect, 
was  a  persecuted  wanderer.  She  had  been  taken  from 
the  prison  a  short  time  before,  carried  into  the  unin 
habited  wilderness,  and  left  to  perish  there  by  hunger 
or  wild  beasts.  This  was  no  uncommon  method  of 
disposing  of  the  Quakers,  and  they  were  accustomed 
to  boast,  that  the  inhabitants  of  the  desert  were  more 
hospitable  to  them  than  civilized  man. 

'  Fear  not,  little  boy,  you  shall  not  need  a  mother, 
and  a  kind  one,'  said  Dorothy,  when  she  had  gathered 
this  information.  '  Dry  your  tears,  Ilbrahim,  and  be 
my  child,  as  I  will  be  your  mother.' 

The  good  woman  prepared  the  little  bed,  from  which 
her  own  children  had  successively  been  borne  to 
another  resting  place.  Before  Ilbrahim  would  consent 
to  occupy  it,  he  knelt  down,  and  as  Dorothy  listened 
to  his  simple  and  affecting"  prayer,  she  marvelled  how 
the  parents  that  had  taught  it  to  him  could  have  been 
judged  worthy  of  death.  When  the  boy  had  fallen 
asleep,  she  bent  over  his  pale  and  spiritual  countenance, 
pressed  a  kiss  upon  his  white  brow,  drew  the  bed 
clothes  up  about  his  neck,  and  went  away  with  a 
pensive  gladness  in  her  heart. 

Tobias  Pearson  was  not  among  the  earliest  emigrants 
from  the  old  country.  He  had  remained  in  England 
during  the  first  years  of  the  civil  war,  in  which  he 


108  THE      GENTLE      BOY. 

had  borne  some  share  as  a  cornet  of  dragoons,  under 
Cromwell.  But  when  the  ambitious  designs  of  his 
leader  began  to  develop  themselves,  he  quitted  the 
army  of  the  parliament,  and  sought  a  refuge  from  the 
strife,  which  was  no  longer  holy,  among  the  people  of 
his  persuasion  in  the  colony  of  Massachusetts.  A 
more  worldly  consideration  had  perhaps  an  influence 
in  drawing  him  thither ;  for  New  England  offered 
advantages  to  men  of  unprosperous  fortunes,  as  well  as 
to  dissatisfied  religionists,  and  Pearson  had  hitherto 
found  it  difficult  to  provide  for  a  wife  and  increasing 
family.  To  this  supposed  impurity  of  motive,  the 
more  bigoted  Puritans  were  inclined  to  impute  the 
removal  by  death  of  all  the  children,  for  whose  earthly 
good  the  father  had  been  over-thoughtful.  They  had 
left  their  native  country  blooming  like  roses,  and  like 
roses  they  had  perished  in  a  foreign  soil.  Those  ex 
pounders  of  the  ways  of  Providence,  who  had  thus 
judged  their  brother,  and  attributed  his  domestic  sor 
rows  to  his  sin,  were  not  more  charitable  when  they 
saw  him  and  Dorothy  endeavoring  to  fill  up  the  void 
in  their  hearts,  by  the  adoption  of  an  infant  of  the 
accursed  sect.  Nor  did  they  fail  to  communicate 
their  disapprobation  to  Tobias  ;  but  the  latter,  in  reply, 
merely  pointed  at  the  little  quiet,  lovely  boy,  whose 
appearance  and  deportment  were  indeed  as  powerful 
arguments  as  could  possibly  have  been  adduced  in  his 
own  favor.  Even  his  beauty,  however,  and  his  win 
ning  manners,  sometimes  produced  an  effect  ultimately 


THE      GENTLE      BOY.  109 

unfavorable ;  for  the  bigots,  when  the  outer  surfaces 
of  their  iron  hearts  had  been  softened  and  again  grew 
hard,  affirmed  that  no  merely  natural  cause  could  have 
so  worked  upon  them. 

Their  antipathy  to  the  poor  infant  was  also  increas 
ed  by  the  ill  success  of  divers  theological  discussions, 
in  which  it  was  attempted  to  convince  him  of  the 
errors  of  his  sect.  Ilbrahim,  it  is  true,  was  not  a 
skilful  controversialist ;  but  the  feeling  of  his  religion 
was  strong  as  instinct  in  him,  and  he  could  neither  be 
enticed  nor  driven  from  the  faith  which  his  father  had 
died  for.  The  odium  of  this  stubbornness  was  shared 
in  a  great  measure  by  the  child's  protectors,  insomuch 
that  Tobias  and  Dorothy  very  shortly  began  to  ex 
perience  a  most  bitter  species  of  persecution,  in  the 
cold  regards  of  many  a  friend  whom  they  had  valued. 
The  common  people  manifested  tiieir  opinions  more 
openly.  Pearson  was  a 'man  of  some  consideration, 
being  a  Representative  to  the  General  Court,  and  an 
approved  Lieutenant  in  the  train-bands,  yet  within  a 
week  after  his  adoption  of  Ilbrahim,  he  had  been  both 
hissed  and  hooted.  Once,  also,  when  walking  through 
a  solitary  piece  of  woods,  he  heard  a  loud  voice  from 
some  invisible  speaker  ;  and  it  cried,  '  What  shall  be 
done  to  the  backslider  ?  Lo  !  the  scourge  is  knotted 
for  him,  even  the  whip  of  nine  cords,  and  every  cord 
three  knots  !'  These  insults  irritated  Pearson's  temper 
for  the  moment ;  they  entered  also  into  his  heart,  and 
became  imperceptible  but  powerful  workers  towards 


110  THE      GENTLE      BOY. 

an  end,  which  his  most  secret  thought  had  not   yet 

whispered. 

*         *         *         *         * 

On  the  second   Sabbath  after    Ilbrahim  became  a 
member  of  their  family,  Pearson  and  his  wife  deemed 
it  proper  that  he  should  appear  with  them  at  public 
worship.     They  had   anticipated   some  opposition  to 
this  measure  from  the  boy,  but  he  prepared  himself  in 
silence,  and  at  the  appointed  hour  was  clad  in  the  new 
mourning  suit  which  Dorothy  had   wrought  for  him. 
As  the  parish  was  then,  and  during  many  subsequent 
years,  unprovided  with  a  bell,  the  signal  for  the  com 
mencement    of  religious  exercises  was  the  beat  of  a 
drum.     At  the  first  sound  of  that  martial  call  to  the 
place  of  holy  and  quiet  thoughts,  Tobias  and  Dorothy 
set  forth,  each  holding  a  hand  of  little  Ilbrahim,  like 
two  parents  linkecKtogether  by  the  infant  of  their  love. 
On  their  path  through  the  leafless  woods,  they  were 
overtaken  by  many  persons  of  their  acquaintance,  all 
of  whom  avoided  them,  and  passed  by  on  the  other 
side ;  but  a  severer  trial  awaited  their  constancy  when 
they  had  descended  the  hill  and  drew  near  the  pine- 
built  and  undecorated  house  of  prayer.     Around  the 
door,   from   which   the   drummer   still   sent  forth   his 
thundering   summons,    was    drawn    up    a   formidable 
phalanx,  including  several   of  the  oldest  members  of 
the  congregation,  many  of  the  middle-aged,  and  nearly 
all  the  younger  males.     Pearson  found  it  difficult  to 
sustain  their  united  and  disapproving  gaze,  but  Dor- 


THE      GENTLE      BOY.  Ill 

othy,  whose  mind  was  differently  circumstanced, 
merely  drew  the  boy  closer  to  her,  and  faltered  not 
in  her  approach.  As  they  entered  the  door,  they 
overheard  the  muttered  sentiments  of  the  assemblage, 
and  when  the  reviling  voices  of  the  little  children 
smote  Ilbrahim's  ear,  he  wept. 

The  interior  aspect  of  the  meetinghouse  was  rude. 
The  low  ceiling,  the  unplastered  walls,  the  naked 
wood-work,  and  the  undraperied  pulpit,  offered  nothing 
to  excite  the  devotion,  which,  without  such  external 
aids,  often  remains  latent  in  the  heart.  The  floor  of 
the  building  was  occupied  by  rows  of  long,  cushionless 
benches,  supplying  the  place  of  pews,  and  the  broad- 
aisle  formed  a  sexual  division,  impassable  except  by 
children  beneath  a  certain  age. 

Pearson  and  Dorothy  separated  at  the  door  of  the 
meetinghouse,  and  Ilbrahim,  being  within  the  years  of 
infancy,  was  retained  under  the  care  of  the  latter. 
The  wrinkled  beldams  involved  themselves  in  their 
rusty  cloaks  as  he  passed  by  ;  even  the  mild-featured 
maidens  seemed  to  dread  contamination  ;  and  many  a 
stern  old  man  arose,  and  turned  his  repulsive  and 
unheavenly  countenance  upon  the  gentle  boy,  as  if  the 
sanctuary  were  polluted  by  his  presence.  He  was  a 
sweet  infant  of  the  skies,  that  had  strayed  away  from 
his  home,  and  all  the  inhabitants  of  this  miserable 
world  closed  up  their  impure  hearts  against  him,  drew 
back  their  earth-soiled  garments  from  his  touch,  and 
said,  '  We  are  holier  than  thou.' 


BOY. 


»?fjbes*fe«f  * 
B*9d«f  tar  fcaBd,  asmMd  a,  gtw 


IK  did  not 

TfeesraMskriMttjcfc 

PPAbows 


ma 
lot 


wiuidki  stood  %  the  gjwaft 

H«  was  mow  wdl  sttickai  101  j^sairs^  a  muui  til* 
©WMft^^ 


d  fine  was  m«A 
to  fisrgeft  the  fesiean  agaiBSl  wiodki  lie  mad 


HI  wthidfe 


trafe.    H«  adwated  to  Kite  reran* 

pramce,  astd  eaaftiQaKd  luis  BCORXS .of 


THE      GENTLE      BOY.  113 

against  calling  in  question  the  just  severity,  which 
God-fearing  magistrates  had  at  length  been  compelled 
to  exercise.  He  spoke  of  the  danger  of  pity,  in  some 
cases  a  commendable  and  Christian  virtue,  but  inappli 
cable  to  this  pernicious  sect.  He  observed  that  such 
was  their  devilish  obstinacy  in  error,  that  even  the 
little  children,  the  sucking  babes,  were  hardened  and 
desperate  heretics.  He  affirmed  that  no  man,  without 
Heaven's  especial  warrant,  should  attempt  their  con 
version,  lest  while  he  lent  his  hand  to  draw  them  from 
the  slough,  he  should  himself  be  precipitated  into  its 
lowest  depths. 

The  sands  of  the  second  hour  were  principally  in 
the  lower  half  of  the  glass,  when  the  sermon  con 
cluded.  An  approving  murmur  followed,  and  the 
clergyman,  having  given  out  a  hymn,  took  his  seat 
with  much  self-congratulation,  and  endeavored  to  read 
the  effect  of  his  eloquence  in  the  visages  of  the  people. 
But  while  voices  from  all  parts  of  the  house  were 
tuning  themselves  to  sing,  a  scene  occurred,  which, 
though  not  very  unusual  at  that  period  in  the  province, 
happened  to  be  without  precedent  in  this  parish. 

The  muffled  female,  who  had  hitherto  sat  motionless 
in  the  front  rank  of  the  audience,  now  arose,  and  with 
slow,  stately,  and  unwavering  step,  ascended  the  pulpit 
stairs.  The  quaverings  of  incipient  harmony  were 
hushed,  and  the  divine  sat  in  speechless  and  almost 
terrified  astonishment,  while  she  undid  the  door,  and 
stood  up  in  the  sacred  desk  from  which  his  maledio 


114  THE      GENTLE      BOY. 

tions    had  just   been    thundered.     She  then  divested 
herself  of  the  cloak  and  hood,  and  appeared  in  a  most 
singular   array.     A  shapeless  robe  of  sackcloth   was 
girded    about  her    waist  with    a  knotted    cord ;    her 
raven    hair    fell    down   upon    her    shoulders,   and    its 
blackness  was  denied  by  pale  streaks  of  ashes,  which 
she  had  strewn  upon  her  head.     Her  eyebrows,  dark 
and  strongly  denned,  added  to  the  deathly  whiteness 
of  a  countenance  which,   emaciated  with  want,  and 
wild  with  enthusiasm  and  strange  sorrows,  retained  no 
trace    of  earlier    beauty.     This   figure    stood   gazing 
earnestly  on  the  audience,  and  there  was  no  sound, 
nor  any  movement,  except  a  faint  shuddering  which 
every  man  observed  in  his  neighbor,  but  was  scarcely 
conscious  of  in  himself.     At  length,  when  her  fit  of 
inspiration  came,  she  spoke,  for  the  first  few  moments, 
in  a  low  voice,  and  not  invariably  distinct  utterance. 
Her  discourse  gave  evidence  of  an  imagination  hope 
lessly  entangled  with  her  reason ;  it  was  a  vague  and 
incomprehensible  rhapsody,  which,  however,  seemed 
to  spread  its  own  atmosphere  round  the  hearer's  soul, 
and  to  move  his  feelings  by   some   influence   uncon 
nected  with  the  words.     As  she  proceeded,  beautiful 
but  shadowy  images    would  sometimes  be  seen,  like 
bright  things  moving  in  a  turbid  river ;  or  a  strong 
and  singularly  shaped  idea  leapt  forth,  and  seized  at 
once  on    the  understanding   or   the  heart.     But  the 
course  of  her  unearthly  eloquence  soon  led  her  to  the 
persecutions  of  her  sect,  and  from  thence  the  step  was 


THE      GENTLE      BOY.  115 

short  to  her  own  peculiar  sorrows.  She  was  naturally 
a  woman  of  mighty  passions,  and  hatred  and  revenge 
now  wrapped  themselves  in  the  garb  of  piety ;  the 
character  of  her  speech  was  changed,  her  images 
became  distinct  though  wild,  and  her  denunciations 
had  an  almost  hellish  bitterness. 

'  The    Governor    and    his   mighty  men/   she   said, 
'  have  gathered  together,  taking  counsel  among  them 
selves    and    saying,    "  What    shall    we    do   unto   this 
people — even  unto  the  people  that  have  come  into  this 
land  to  put  our  iniquity  to  the  blush?"     And  lo  !  the 
devil  entereth  into  the  council-chamber,  like  a  lame 
man  of  low  stature  and  gravely  appareled,  with  a  dark 
and  twisted  countenance,  and  a  bright,  downcast  eye. 
And  he  standeth  up  among  the  rulers  ;  yea,  he  goeth 
to  and  fro,  whispering  to  each ;  and  every  man  lends 
his  ear,  for  his  word  is  "  slay,  slay  !"     But  I  say  unto 
ye,  Woe  to  them  that  slay !     Woe  to  them  that  shed 
the  blood  of  saints  !     Woe  to  them  that  have  slain  the 
husband,  and  cast  forth  the  child,  the  tender  infant, 
to  wander  homeless,  and  hungry,  and  cold,  till  he  die ; 
and  have  saved  the  mother  alive,  in  the  cruelty  of  their 
tender    mercies !     Woe    to   them    in   their   life-time, 
cursed  are  they  in  the  delight  and  pleasure  of  their 
hearts !     Woe  to  them  in  their  death-hour,  whether  it 
come  swiftly  with  blood  and  violence,  or  after  long 
and  lingering  pain !     Woe,  in  the  dark  house,  in  the 
rottenness  of  the  grave,  when  the  children's  children 
shall  revile  the  ashes  of  the  fathers !     Woe,  woe,  woe, 


116  THE      GENTLE      BOY. 

at  the  judgment,  when  all  the  persecuted  and  all  the 
slain  in  this  bloody  land,  and  the  father,  the  mother, 
and  the  child,  shall  await  them  in  a  day  that  they 
cannot  escape  !  Seed  of  the  faith,  seed  of  the  faith, 
ye  whose  hearts  are  moving  with  a  power  that  ye  know 
not,  arise,  wash  your  hands  of  this  innocent  blood  ! 
Lift  your  voices,  chosen  ones,  cry  aloud,  and  call 
down  a  woe  and  a  judgment  with  me !' 

Having  thus  given  vent  to  the  flood  of  malignity 
which  she  mistook  for  inspiration,  the  speaker  was 
silent.  Her  voice  was  succeeded  by  the  hysteric 
shrieks  of  several  women,  but  the  feelings  of  the  audi 
ence  generally  had  not  been  drawn  onward  in  the 
current  with  her  own.  They  remained  stupefied, 
stranded  as  it  were,  in  the  midst  of  a  torrent,  which 
deafened  them  by  its  roaring,  but  might  not  move 
them  by  its  violence.  The  clergyman,  who  could  not 
hitherto  have  ejected  the  usurper  of  his  pulpit  other 
wise  than  by  bodily  force,  now  addressed  her  in  the 
tone  of  just  indignation  and  legitimate  authority. 

'  Get  you  down,  woman,  from  the  holy  place  which 
you  profane,'  he  said.  'Is  it  to  the  Lord's  house  that 
you  come  to  pour  forth  the  foulness  of  your  heart,  and 
the  inspiration  of  the  devil  ?  Get  you  down,  and 
remember  that  the  sentence  of  death  is  on  you ;  yea, 
and  shall  be  executed,  were  it  but  for  this  day's  work  ?' 
4 1  go,  friend,  I  go,  for  the  voice  hath  had  its  utter 
ance/  replied  she,  in  a  depressed  and  even  mild  tone. 
'  I  have  done  my  mission  unto  thee  and  to  thy  people. 


>-->--•  •"„.-    ...    •*». 

THE      GENTLE      BOY.  117 

Reward  me  with  stripes,  imprisonment,  or  death,  as 
ye  shall  be  permitted.' 

The  weakness  of  exhausted  passion  caused  her  steps 
to  totter  as  she  descended  the  pulpit  stairs.  The 
people,  in  the  meanwhile,  were  stirring  to  and  fro  on 
the  floor  of  the  house,  whispering  among  themselves, 
and  glancing  towards  the  intruder.  Many  of  them 
now  recognised  her  as  the  woman  who  had  assaulted 
the  Governor  with  frightful  language,  as  he  passed  by 
the  window  of  her  prison  ;  they  knew,  also,  that  she 
was  adjudged  to  suffer  death,  and  had  been  preserved 
only  by  an  involuntary  banishment  into  the  wilderness. 
The  new  outrage,  by  which  she  had  provoked  her  fate, 
seemed  to  render  further  lenity  impossible ;  and  a 
gentleman  in  military  dress,  with  a  stout  man  of  in 
ferior  rank,  drew  towards  the  door  of  the  meeting 
house,  and  awaited  her  approach.  Scarcely  did  her 
feet  press  the  floor,  however,  when  an  unexpected 
scene  occurred.  In  that  moment  of  her  peril,  when 
every  eye  frowned  with  death,  a  little  timid  boy 
pressed  forth,  and  threw  his  arms  round  his  mother. 

*  I  am  here,  mother,  it  is  I,  and  I  will  go  with  thee 
to  prison,'  he  exclaimed. 

She  gazed  at  him  with  a  doubtful  and  almost  fright 
ened  expression,  for  she  knew  that  the  boy  had  been 
cast  out  to  perish,  and  she  had  not  hoped  to  see  his 
face  again.  She  feared,  perhaps,  that  it  was  but  one 
of  the  happy  visions,  with  which  her  excited  fancy 
had  often  deceived  her,  in  the  solitude  of  the  desert, 

K 


118  THE      GENTLE      BOY. 

or  in  prison.  But  when  she  felt  his  hand  warm  within 
her  own,  and  heard  his  little  eloquence  of  childish 
love,  she  began  to  know  that  she  was  yet  a  mother. 

*  Blessed  art  thou,  my  son,'  she  sobb.ed.  '  My  heart 
was  withered ;  yea,  dead  with  thee  and  with  thy 
father ;  and  now  it  leaps  as  in  the  first  moment  when 
I  pressed  thee  to  my  bosom.' 

She  knelt  down,  and  embraced  him  again  and  again, 
while  the  joy  that  could  find  no  words,  expressed  itself 
in  broken  accents,  like  the  bubbles  gushing  up  to 
vanish  at  the  surface  of  a  deep  fountain.  The  sorrows 
of  past  years,  and  the  darker  peril  that  was  nigh,  cast 
not  a  shadow  on  the  brightness  of  that  fleeting  moment. 
Soon,  however,  the  spectators  saw  a  change  upon  her 
face,  as  the  consciousness  of  her  sad  estate  returned, 
and  grief  supplied  the  fount  of  tears  which  joy  had 
opened.  By  the  words  she  uttered,  it  would  seem 
that  the  indulgence  of  natural  love  had  given  her  mind 
a  momentary  sense  of  its  errors,  and  made  her  know 
how  far  she  had  strayed  from  duty,  in  following  the 
dictates  of  a  wild  fanaticism. 

1  In  a  doleful  hour  art  thou  returned  to  me,  poor 
boy,'  she  said,  '  for  thy  mother's  path  has  gone  dark 
ening  onward,  till  now  the  end  is  death.  Son,  son, 
I  have  borne  thee  in  my  arms  when  iny  limbs  were 
tottering,  and  I  have  fed  thee  with  the  food  that  I  was 
fainting  for ;  yet  I  have  ill  performed  a  mother's  part 
by  thee  in  life,  and  now  I  leave  thee  no  inheritance 
but  woe  and  shame.  Thou  wilt  go  seeking  through 


THE      GENTLE.    BOY.  1 19 

the  world,  and  find  all  hearts  closed  against  thee,  and 
their  sweet  affections  turned  to  bitterness  for  my  sake. 
My  child,  my  child,  how  many  a  pang  awaits  thy 
gentle  spirit,  and  I  the  cause  of  all !' 

She  hid  her  face  on  Ilbrahim's  head,  and  her  long, 
raven  hair,  discolored  with  the  ashes  of  her  mourning, 
fell  down  about  him  like  a  veil.  A  low  and  interrupted 
moan  was  the  voice  of  her  heart's  anguish,  and  it  did 
not  fail  to  move  the  sympathies  of  many  who  mistook 
their  involuntary  virtue  for  a  sin.  Sobs  were  audible 
in  the  female  section  of  the  house,  and  every  man  who 
was  a  father,  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes.  Tobias 
Pearson  was  agitated  and  uneasy,  but  a  certain  feeling 
like  the  consciousness  of  guilt  oppressed  him,  so  that 
he  could  not  go  forth  and  offer  himself  as  the  pro 
tector  of  the  child.  Dorothy,  however,  had  watched 
her  husband's  eye.  Her  mind  was  free  from  the 
influence  that  had  begun  to  work  on  his,  and  she 
drew  near  the  Quaker  woman,  and  addressed  her  in 
the  hearing  of  all  the  congregation. 

1  Stranger,  trust  this  boy  to  me,  and  I  will  be  his 
mother,'  she  said,  taking  Ilbrahim's  hand.  '  Provi 
dence  has  signally  marked  out  my  husband  to  protect 
him,  and  he  has  fed  at  our  table  and  lodged  under  our 
roof,  now  many  days,  till  our  hearts  have  grown  very 
strongly  unto  him.  Leave  the  tender  child  with  us, 
and  be  at  ease  concerning  his  welfare.' 

The  Quaker  rose  from  the  ground,  but  drew  the 
boy  closer  to  her,  while  she  gazed  earnestly  in  Dor- 


120  THE      GENTLE      BOY. 

othy's  face.  Her  mild,  but  saddened  features,  and 
neat,  matronly  attire,  harmonized  together,  and  were 
like  a  verse  of  fireside  poetry.  Her  very  aspect  proved 
that  she  was  blameless,  so  far  as  mortal  could  be  so, 
in  respect  to  God  and  man ;  while  the  enthusiast,  in 
her  robe  of  sackcloth  and  girdle  of  knotted  cord,  had 
as  evidently  violated  the  duties  of  the  present  life  and 
the  future,  by  fixing  her  attention  wholly  on  the  latter. 
The  two  females,  as  they  held  each  a  hand  of  Ilbrahim, 
formed  a  practical  allegory  ;  it  was  rational  piety  and 
unbridled  fanaticism,  contending  for  the  empire  of  a 
yoang  heart. 

'  Thou  art  not  of  our  people,'  said  the  Quaker, 
mournfully. 

*  No,  we  are  not  of  your  people,'  replied  Dorothy, 
with  mildness,  *  but  we  are  Christians,  looking  upward 
to  the  same  Heaven  with  you.  Doubt  not  that  your 
boy  shall  meet  you  there,  if  there  be  a  blessing  on  our 
tender  and  prayerful  guidance  of  him.  Thither,  I 
trust,  my  own  children  have  gone  before  me,  for  I 
also  have  been  a  mother  ;  I  am  no  longer  so,'  she 
added,  in  a  faltering  tone,  '  and  your  son  will  have 
all  my  care.' 

'  But  will  ye  lead  him  in  the  path  which  his  parents 
have  trodden  ?  demanded  the  Quaker.  '  Can  ye  teach 
him  the  enlightened  faith  which  his  father  has  died 
for,  and  for  which  I,  even  I,  am  soon  to  become  an 
unworthy  martyr  ?  The  boy  has  been  baptized  in 
blood  ;  will  ye  keep  the  mark  fresh  and  ruddy  upon 
his  forehead  T 


THE      GENTLE      BOY.  121 

*  I  will  not  deceive  you/  answered  Dorothy.  *  If 
your  child  become  our  child,  we  must  breed  him  up 
in  the  instruction  which  Heaven  has  imparted  to  us ; 
we  must  pray  for  him  the  prayers  of  our  own  faith ;  we 
must  do  towards  him  according  to  the  dictates  of  our 
own  consciences,  and  not  of  your's.  Were  we  to  act 
otherwise,  we  should  abuse  your  trust,  even  in  com 
plying  with  your  wishes.' 

The  mother  looked  down  upon  her  boy  with  a 
troubled  countenance,  and  then  turned  her  eyes  up 
ward  to  heaven.  She  seemed  to  pray  internally,  and 
the  contention  of  her  soul  was  evident. 

'Friend,'  she  said  at  length  to  Dorothy,  '  I  doubt 
not  that  my  son  shall  receive  all  earthly  tenderness  at 
thy  hands.  Nay,  I  will  believe  that  even  thy  imperfect 
lights  may  guide  him  to  a  better  world;  for  surely 
thou  art  on  the  path  thither.  But  thou  hast  spoken 
of  a  husband.  Doth  he  stand  here  among  this  multi 
tude  of  people  ?  Let  him  come  forth,  for  I  must  know 
to  whom  I  commit  this  most  precious  trust.' 

She  turned  her  face  upon  the  male  auditors,  and 
after  a  momentary  delay,  Tobias  Pearson  came  forth 
from  among  them.  The  Quaker  saw  the  dress  which 
marked  his  military  rank,  and  shook  her  head ;  but 
then  she  noted  the  hesitating  air,  the  eyes  that  strug 
gled  with  her  own,  and  were  vanquished;  the  color 
that  went  and  came,  and  could  find  no  resting  place. 
As  she  gazed,  an  unmirthful  smile  spread  over  her 
features,  like  sunshine  that  grows  melancholy  in  some 
K* 


122  THE      GENTLE      BOY. 

desolate  spot.     Her  lips  moved  inaudibly,  but  at  length 
she  spake. 

'I  hear  it,  I  hear  it.  The  voice  speaketh  within 
me  and  saith,  "  Leave  thy  child,  Catharine,  for  his 
place  is  here,  and  go  hence,  for  I  have  other  work  for 
thee.  Break  the  bonds  of  natural  affection,  martyr 
thy  love,  and  know  that  in  all  these  things  eternal 
wisdom  hath  its  ends."  I  go,  friends,  I  go.  Take  ye 
my  boy,  my  precious  jewel.  I  go  hence,  trusting  that 
all  shall  be  well,  and  that  even  for  his  infant  hands 
there  is  a  labor  in  the  vineyard.' 

She  knelt  down  and  whispered  to  Ilbrahim,  who  at 
first  struggled  and  clung  to  his  mother,  with  sobs  and 
tears,  but  remained  passive  when  she  had  kissed  his 
cheek  and  arisen  from  the  ground.  Having  held  her 
hands  over  his  head  in  mental  prayer,  she  was  ready 
to  depart. 

'  Farewell,  friends,  in  mine  extremity,'  she  said  to 
Pearson  and  his  wife ;  '  the  good  deed  ye  have  done 
me  is  a  treasure  laid  up  in  heaven,  to  be  returned 
a  thousandfold  hereafter.  And  farewell  ye,  mine 
enemies,  to  whom  it  is  not  permitted  to  harm  so  much 
as  a  hair  of  my  head,  nor  to  stay  my  footsteps  even  for 
a  moment.  The  day  is  coming,  when  ye  shall  call 
upon  me  to  witness  for  ye  to  this  one  sin  uncommitted, 
and  I  will  rise  up  and  answer.' 

She  turned  her  steps  towards  the  door,  and  the  men, 
who  had  stationed  themselves  to  guard  it,  withdrew, 
and  suffered  her  to  pass.  A  general  sentiment  of  pity 


THE      GENTLE      BOY.  123 

overcame  the  virulence  of  religious  hatred.  Sanctified 
by  her  love,  and  her  affliction,,  she  went  forth,  and  all 
the  people  gazed  after  her  till  she  had  journeyed  up  the 
hill,  and  was  lost  behind  its  brow.  She  went,  the 
apostle  of  her  own  unquiet  heart,  to  renew  the  wander 
ings  of  past  years.  For  her  voice  had  been  already 
heard  in  many  lands  of  Christendom;  and  she  had 
pined  in  the  cells  of  a  Catholic  Inquisition,  before  she 
felt  the  lash,  and  lay  in  the  dungeons  of  the  Puritans. 
Her  mission  had  extended  also  to  the  followers  of  the 
Prophet,  and  from  them  she  had  received  the  courtesy 
and  kindness,  which  all  the  contending  sects  of  our 
purer  religion  united  to  deny  her.  Her  husband  and 
herself  had  resided  many  months  in  Turkey,  where 
even  the  Sultan's  countenance  was  gracious  to  them ; 
in  that  pagan  land,  too,  was  Ilbrahim's  birthplace,  and 
his  oriental  name  was  a  mark  of  gratitude  for  the  good 

deeds  of  an  unbeliever. 

***** 

When  Pearson  and  his  wife  had  thus  acquired  all 
the  rights  over  Ilbrahim  that  could  be  delegated,  their 
affection  for  him  became,  like  the  memory  of  their 
native  land,  or  their  mild  sorrow  for  the  dead,  a  piece 
of  the  immovable  furniture  of  their  hearts.  The  boy, 
also,  after  a  week  or  two  of  mental  disquiet,  began  to 
gratify  his  protectors,  by  many  inadvertent  proofs  that 
he  considered  them  as  parents,  and  their  house  as 
home.  Before  the  winter  snows  were  melted,  the 
persecuted  infant,  the  little  wanderer  from  a  remote 


124  THE      GENTLE      BOY. 

and  heathen  country,  seemed  native  in  the  New  Eng 
land  cottage,  and  inseparable  from  the  warmth  and 
security  of  its  hearth.  Under  the  influence  of  kind 
treatment,  and  in  the  consciousness  that  he  was  loved, 
Ilbrahim's  demeanor  lost  a  premature  manliness,  which 
had  resulted  from  his  earlier  situation ;  he  became 
more  childlike,  and  his  natural  character  displayed 
itself  with  freedom.  It  was  in  many  respects  a  beauti 
ful  one,  yet  the  disordered  imaginations  of  both  his 
father  and  mother  had  perhaps  propagated  a  certain 
unhealthiness  in  the  mind  of  the  boy.  In  his  general 
state,  Ilbrahim  would  derive  enjoyment  from  the  most 
trifling  events,  and  from  every  object  about  him  ;  he 
seemed  to  discover  rich  treasures  of  happiness,  by  a 
faculty  analogous  to  that  of  the  witchhazel,  which 
points  to  hidden  gold  where  all  is  barren  to  the  eye. 
His  airy  gaiety,  coming  to  him  from  a  thousand  sources, 
communicated  itself  to  the  family,  and  Ilbrahim  was 
like  a  domesticated  sunbeam,  brightening  moody  coun 
tenances,  and  chasing  away  the  gloom  from  the  dark 
corners  of  the  cottage. 

On  the  other  hand,  as  the  susceptibility  of  pleasure 
is  also  that  of  pain,  the  exuberant  cheerfulness  of  the 
boy's  prevailing  temper  sometimes  yielded  to  moments 
of  deep  depression.  His  sorrows  could  not  always  be 
followed  up  to  their  original  source,  but  most  frequent 
ly  they  appeared  to  flow,  though  Ilbrahim  was  young 
to  be  sad  for  such  a  cause,  from  wounded  love.  The 
flightiness  of  his  mirth  rendered  him  often  guilty  of 


THE      GENTLE      BOY.  125 

offences  against  the  decorum  of  a  Puritan  household, 
and  on  these  occasions  he  did  not  invariably  escape 
rebuke.  But  the  slightest  word  of  real  bitterness, 
which  he  was  infallible  in  distinguishing  from  pretend 
ed  anger,  seemed  to  sink  into  his  heart  and  poison  all 
his  enjoyments,  till  he  became  sensible  that  he  was 
entirely  forgiven.  Of  the  malice,  which  generally 
accompanies  a  superfluity  of  sensitiveness,  Ilbrahim, 
was  altogether  destitute ;  when  trodden  upon,  he  would 
not  turn  ;  when  wounded,  he  could  but  die.  His  mind 
was  wanting  in  the  stamina  for  self-support ;  it  was  a 
plant  that  would  twine  beautifully  round  something 
stronger  than  itself,  but  if  repulsed,  or  torn  away,  it 
had  no  choice  but  to  wither  on  the  ground.  Dorothy's 
acuteness  taught  her  that  severity  would  crush  the 
spirit  of  the  child,  and  she  nurtured  him  with  the 
gentle  care  of  one  who  handles  a  butterfly.  Her  hus 
band  manifested  an  equal  affection,  although  it  grew 
daily  Jess  productive  of  familiar  caresses. 

The  feelings  of  the  neighboring  people,  in  regard  to 
the  Quaker  infant  and  his  protectors,  had  not  under 
gone  a  favorable  change,  in  spite  of  the  momentary 
triumph  which  the  desolate  mother  had  obtained  over 
their  sympathies.  The  scorn  and  bitterness,  of  which 
he  was  the  object,  were  very  grievous  to  Ilbrahim, 
especially  when  any  circumstance  made  him  sensible 
that  the  children,  his  equals  in  age,  partook  of  the 
enmity  of  their  parents.  His  tender  and  social  nature 
had  already  overflowed  in  attachments  to  everything 


126  THE      GENTLE      BOY. 

about  him,  and  still  there  was  a  residue  of  unappropri 
ated  love,  which  he  yearned  to  bestow  upon  the  little 
ones  who  were  taught  to  hate  him.  As  the  warm  days 
of  spring  came  on,  Ilbrahim  was  accustomed  to  remain 
for  hours,  silent  and  inactive,  within  hearing  of  the 
children's  voices  at  their  play ;  yet,  with  his  usual 
delicacy  of  feeling,  he  avoided  their  notice,  and  would 
flee  and  hide  himself  from  the  smallest  individual 
among  them.  Chance,  however,  at  length  seemed  to 
open  a  medium  of  communication  between  his  heart 
and  theirs  ;  it  was  by  means  of  a  boy  about  two  years 
older  than  Ilbrahim,  who  was  injured  by  a  fall  from  a 
tree  in  the  vicinity  of  Pearson's  habitation.  As  the 
sufferer's*  own  home  was  at  some  distance,  Dorothy 
willingly  received  him  under  her  roof,  and  became  his 
tender  and  careful  nurse. 

Ilbrahim  was  the  unconscious  possessor  of  much 
skill  in  physiognomy,  and  it  would  have  deterred  him, 
in  other  circumstances,  from  attempting  to  make  a 
friend  of  this  boy.  The  countenance  of  the  latter 
immediately  impressed  a  beholder  disagreeably,  but  it 
required  some  examination  to  discover  that  the  cause 
was  a  very  slight  distortion  of  the  mouth,  and  the 
irregular,  broken  line,  and  near  approach  of  the  eye 
brows.  Analogous,  perhaps,  to  these  trifling  defor 
mities,  was  an  almost  imperceptible  twist  of  every 
joint,  and  the  uneven  prominence  of  the  breast ;  form 
ing  a  body,  regular  in  its  general  outline,  but  faulty  in 
almost  all  its  details,  The  disposition  of  the  boy  was 


THE      GENTLE      BOY.  127 

sullen  and  reserved,  and  the  village  schoolmaster 
stigmatized  him  as  obtuse  in  intellect ;  although,  at  a 
later  period  of  life,  he  evinced  ambition  and  very 
peculiar  talents.  But  whatever  might  be  his  personal 
or  moral  irregularities,  Ilbrahim's  heart  seized  upon, 
and  clung  to  him,  from  the  moment  that  he  was 
brought  wounded  into  the  cottage  ;  the  child  of  per 
secution  seemed  to  compare  his  own  fate  with  that  of 
the  sufferer^  and  to  feel  that  even  different  modes  of 
misfortune  had  created  a  sort  of  relationship  between 
them.  Food,  rest,  and  the  fresh  air,  for  which  he 
languished,  were  neglected  ;  he  nestled  continually  by 
the  bed-side  of  the  little  stranger,  and,  with  a  fond 
jealousy,  endeavored  to  be  the  medium  of  all  the  cares 
that  were  bestowed  upon  him.  As  the  boy  became 
convalescent,  Ilbrahim  contrived  games  suitable  to  his 
situation,  or  amused  him  by  a  faculty  which  he  had 
perhaps  breathed  in  with  the  air  of  his  barbaric  birth 
place.  It  was  that  of  reciting  imaginary  adventures, 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  and  apparently  in  inexr 
haustible  succession.  His  tales  were  of  course  mon 
strous,  disjointed,  and  without  aim ;  but  they  were 
curious  on  account  of  a  vein  of  human  tenderness, 
which  ran  through  them  all,  and  was  like  a  sweet, 
familiar  face,  encountered  in  the  midst  of  wild  and 
unearthly  scenery.  The  auditor  paid  much  attention 
to  these  romances,  and  sometimes  interrupted  them  by 
brief  remarks  upon  the  incidents,  displaying  shrewd 
ness  above  his  years,  mingled  with  a  moral  obliquity 


128  THE      GENTLE      BOY. 

which  grated  very  harshly  against  Ilbrahim's  instinc 
tive  rectitude.  Nothing,  however,  could  arrest  the 
progress  of  the  latter's  affection,  and  there  were  many 
proofs  that  it  met  with  a  response  from  the  dark  and 
stubborn  nature  on  which  it  was  lavished.  The  boy's 
parents  at  length  removed  him,  to  complete  his  cure 
under  their  own  roof. 

Ilbrahim  did  not  visit  his  new  friend  after  his  de 
parture  ;  but  he  made  anxious  and  continual  inquiries 
respecting  him,  and  informed  himself  of  the  day 
when  he  was  to  reappear  among  his  playmates.  On 
a  pleasant  summer  afternoon,  the  children  of  the 
neighborhood  had  assembled  in  the  little  forest-crowned 
amphitheatre  behind  the  meetinghouse,  and  the  re 
covering  invalid  was  there,  leaning  on  a  staff.  The 
glee  of  a  score  of  untainted  bosoms  was  heard  in  light 
and  airy  voices,  which  danced  among  the  trees  like 
sunshine  become  audible ;  the  grown  men  of  this 
weary  world,  as  they  journeyed  by  the  spot,  marvelled 
why  life,  beginning  in  such  brightness,  should  proceed 
in  gloom ;  and  their  hearts,  or  their  imaginations, 
answered  them  and  said,  that  the  bliss  of  childhood 
gushes  from  its  innocence.  But  it  happened  that  an 
unexpected  addition  was  made  to  the  heavenly  little 
band.  It  was  Ilbrahim,  who  came  towards  the  child 
ren,  with  a  look  of  sweet  confidence  on  his  fair  and 
spiritual  face,  as  if,  having  manifested  his  love  to  one 
of  them,  he  had  no  longer  to  fear  a  repulse  from  their 
society.  A  hush  came  over  their  mirth,  the  moment 


THE      GENTLE      BOY.  ]  29 

they  beheld  him,  and  they  stood  whispering  to  each 
other  while  he  drew  nigh  ;  but,  all  at  once,  the  devil 
of  their  fathers  entered  into  the  unbreeched  fanatics, 
and,  sending  up  a  fierce,  shrill  cry,  they  rushed  upon 
the  poor  Quaker  child.  In  an  instant,  he  was  the 
centre  of  a  brood  of  baby-fiends,  who  lifted  sticks 
against  him,  pelted  him  with  stones,  and  displayed  an 
instinct  of  destruction,  far  more  loathsome  than  the 
blood-thirstiness  of  manhood. 

The  invalid,  in  the  meanwhile,  stood  apart  from  the 
tumult,  crying  out  with  a  loud  voice,  '  Fear  not,  Ilbra- 
him,  come  hither  and  take  my  hand ;'  and  his  unhappy 
friend  endeavored  to  obey  him.  After  watching  the 
victim's  struggling  approach,  with  a  calm  smile  and 
unabashed  eye,  the  foul-hearted  little  villain  lifted  his 
staff,  and  struck  Ilbrahim  on  the  mouth,  so  forcibly 
that  the  blood  issued  in  a  stream.  The  poor  child's 
arms  had  been  raised  to  guard  his  head  from  the  storm 
of  blows;  but  now  he  dropped  them  at  once.  His 
persecutors  beat  him  down,  trampled  upon  him,  drag 
ged  him  by  his  long,  fair  locks,  and  Ilbrahim  was  on 
the  point  of  becoming  as  veritable  a  martyr  as  ever 
entered  bleeding  into  heaven.  The  uproar,  however, 
attracted  the  notice  of  a  few  neighbors,  who  put  them 
selves  to  the  trouble  of  rescuing  the  little  heretic,  and 
of  conveying  him  to  Pearson's  door. 

Ilbrahim's  bodily  harm  was  severe,  but  long  and 
careful  nursing  accomplished  his  recovery  ;  the  injury 
done  to  his  sensitive  spirit  was  more  serious,  though 
L 


130  THE      GENTLE      BOY. 

not  so  visible.  Its  signs  were  principally  of  a  negative 
character,  and  to  be  discovered  only  by  those  who  had 
previously  known  him.  His  gait  was  thenceforth  slow, 
even,  and  unvaried  by  the  sudden  bursts  of  sprightlier 
motion,  which  had  once  corresponded  to  his  overflow 
ing  gladness ;  his  countenance  was  heavier,  and  its 
former  play  of  expression,  the  dance  of  sunshine  re 
flected  from  moving  water,  was  destroyed  by  the  cloud 
over  his  existence ;  his  notice  was  attracted  in  a  far 
less  degree  by  passing  events,  and  he  appeared  to  find 
greater  difficulty  in  comprehending  what  was  new  to 
him,  than  at  a  happier  period.  A  stranger,  founding 
his  judgment  upon  these  circumstances,  would  have 
said  that  the  dulness  of  the  child's  intellect  widely 
contradicted  the  promise  of  his  features  ;  but  the  secret 
was  in  the  direction  of  Ilbrahim's  thoughts,  which 
were  brooding  within  him  when  they  should  naturally 
have  been  wandering  abroad.  An  attempt  of  Dorothy 
to  revive  his  former  sportiveness  was  the  single  occa 
sion,  on  which  his  quiet  demeanor  yielded  to  a  violent 
display  of  grief ;  he  burst  into  passionate  weeping,  and 
ran  and  hid  himself,  for  his  heart  had  become  so 
miserably  sore,  that  even  the  hand  of  kindness  tortur 
ed  it  like  fire.  Sometimes,  at  night  and  probably  in 
his  dreams,  he  was  heard  to  cry,  '  Mother  !  Mother  !' 
as  if  her  place,  which  a  stranger  had  supplied  while 
Ilbrahim  was  happy,  admitted  of  no  substitute  in  his 
extreme  affliction.  Perhaps,  among  the  many  life- 
weary  wretches  then  upon  the  earth,  there  was  not  one 


- 

THE      GENTLE      BOY.  131 

Mt^Bfc- 

who  combined  innocence  and  misery  like  this  poor, 
broken-hearted  infant,  so  soon  the  victim  of  his  own 
heavenly  nature. 

While  this  melancholy  change  had  taken  place  in 
Ilbrahim,  one  of  an  earlier  origin  and  of  different 
character  had  come  to  its  perfection  in  his  adopted 
father.  The  incident  with  which  this  tale  commences 
found  Pearson  in  a  state  of  religious  dulness,  yet 
mentally  disquieted,  and  longing  for  a  more  fervid 
faith  then  he  possessed.  The  first  effect  of  his  kind 
ness  to  Ilbrahim  was  to  produce  a  softened  feeling,  an 
incipient  love  for  the  child's  whole  sect ;  but  joined 
to  this,  and  resulting  perhaps  from  self-suspicion,  was 
a  proud  and  ostentatious  contempt  of  their  tenets 
and  practical  extravagances.  In  the  course  of  much 
thought,  however,  for  the  subject  struggled  irresistibly 
into  his  mind,  the  foolishness  of  the  doctrine  began  to 
be  less  evident,  and  the  points  which  had  particularly 
offended  his  reason  assumed  another  aspect,  or  vanish 
ed  entirely  away.  The  work  within  him  appeared  to 
go  on  even  while  he  slept,  and  that  which  had  been  a 
doubt,  when  he  laid  down  to  rest,  would  often  hold 
the  place  of  a  truth,  confirmed  by  some  forgotten 
demonstration,  when  he  recalled  his  thoughts  in  the 
morning.  But  while  he  was  thus  becoming  assimila 
ted  to  the  enthusiasts,  his  contempt,  in  nowise  decreas 
ing  towards  them,  grew  very  fierce  against  himself; 
he  imagined,  also,  that  every  face  of  his  acquaintance 
wore  a  sneer,  and  that  every  word  addressed  to  him 


1 32  THE      GENTLE      BOY. 

was  a  gibe.  Such  was  his  state  of  mind  at  the  period 
of  Ilbrahim's  misfortune ;  and  the  emotions  consequent 
upon  that  event  completed  the  change,  of  which  the 
child  had  been  the  original  instrument. 

In  the  mean  time  neither  the  fierceness  of  the  perse 
cutors,  nor  the  infatuation  of  their  victims,  had  de 
creased.  The  dungeons  were  never  empty  ;  the  streets 
of  almost  every  village  echoed  daily  with  the  lash;  the 
life  of  a  woman,  whose  mild  and  Christian  spirit  no 
cruelty  could  embitter,  had  been  sacrificed ;  and  more 
innocent  blood  was  yet  to  pollute  the  hands,  that  were 
so  often  raised  in  prayer.  Early  after  the  Restoration, 
the  English  Quakers  represented  to  Charles  II.  that  a 
'  vein  of  blood  was  open  in  his  dominions  ;'  but  though 
the  displeasure  of  the  voluptuous  king  was  roused,  his 
interference  was  not  prompt.  And  now  the  tale  must 
stride  forward  over  many  months,  leaving  Pearson  to 
encounter  ignominy  and  misfortune ;  his  wife  to  a 
firm  endurance  of  a  thousand  sorrows ;  poor  Ilbrahim 
to  pine  and  droop  like  a  cankered  rose-bud ;  his  mother 
to  wander  on  a  mistaken  errand,  neglectful  of  the 

holiest  trust  which  can  be  committee!  to  a  woman. 

*         #         *         *         * 

A  winter  evening,  a  night  of  storm,  had  darkened 
over  Pearson's  habitation,  and  there  were  no  cheerful 
faces  to  drive  the  gloom  from  his  broad  hearth.  The 
fire,  it  is  true,  sent  forth  a  glowing  heat  and  a  ruddy 
light,  and  large  logs,  dripping  with  half-melted  snow, 
lay  ready  to  be  cast  upon  the  embers.  But  the  apart- 


THE     GENTLE      BOY.  133 

ment  was  saddened  in  its  aspect  by  the  absence  of 
much  of  the  homely  wealth  which  had  once  adorned 
it ;  for  the  exaction  of  repeated  fines,  and  his  own 
neglect  of  temporal  affairs,  had  greatly  impoverished 
the  owner.  And  with  the  furniture  of  peace,  the  im 
plements  of  war  had  likewise  disappeared ;  the  sword 
was  broken,  the  helm  and  cuirass  were  cast  away  for 
ever  ;  the  soldier  had  done  with  battles,  and  might  not 
lift  so  much  as  his  naked  hand  to  guard  his  head.  But 
the  Holy  Book  remained,  and  the  table  on  which  it 
rested  was  drawn  before  the  fire,  while  two  of  the 
persecuted  sect  sought  comfort  from  its  pages. 

He  who  listened,  while  the  other  read,  was  the 
master  of  the  house,  now  emaciated  in  form,  and  alter 
ed  as  to  the  expression  and  healthiness  of  his  counten 
ance  ;  for  his  mind  had  dwelt  too  long  among  visionary 
thoughts,  and  his  body  had  been  worn  by  imprison 
ment  and  stripes.  The  hale  and  weather-beaten  old 
man,  who  sat  beside  him,  had  sustained  less  injury 
from  a  far  longer  course  of  the  same  mode  of  life. 
In  person  he  was  tall  and  dignified,  and,  which  alone 
would  have  made  him  hateful  to  the  Puritans,  his  grey 
locks  fell  from  beneath  the  broad-brimmed  hat,  and 
rested  on  his  shoulders.  As  the  old  man  read  the 
sacred  page,  the  snow  drifted  against  the  windows,  or 
eddied  in  at  the  crevices  of  the  door,  while  a  blast  kept 
laughing  in  the  chimney,  and  the  blaze  leaped  fiercely 
up  to  seek  it.  And  sometimes,  when  the  wind  struck 
the  hill  at  a  certain  angle,  and  swept  down  by  the 


-"-* 


134  THE     GENTLE      BOY. 

cottage  across  the  wintry  plain,  its  voice  was  the  most 
doleful  that  can  be  conceived  ;  it  came  as  if  the  Past 
were  speaking,  as  if  the  Bead  had  contributed  each  a 
whisper,  as  if  the  Desolation  of  Ages  were  breathed  in 
that  one  lamenting  sound. 

The  Quaker  at  length  closed  the  book,  retaining 
however  his  hand  between  the  pages  which  he  had 
been  reading,  while  he  looked  steadfastly  at  Pearson. 
The  attitude  and  featu^ps  of  the  latter  might  have 
indicated  the  endurance  of  bodily  pain ;  he  leaned  his 
forehead  on  his  hands,  his  teeth  were  firmly  closed, 
and  his  frame  was  tremulous  at  intervals  with  a  nervous 
agitation. 

*  Friend  Tobias,'  inquired  the  old  man,  compassion 
ately,  '  hast  thou  found  no  comfort  in  these  many 
blessed  passages  of  scripture  ?' 

'  Thy  voice  has  fallen  on  my  ear  like  a  sound  afar 
off  and  indistinct,'  replied  Pearson  without  lifting  his 
eyes.  '  Yea,  and  when  I  have  harkened  carefully,  the 
words  seemed  cold  and  lifeless,  and  intended  for 
another  and  a  lesser  grief  than  mine.  Remove  the 
book,'  he  added,  in  a  tone  of  sullen  bitterness.  '  I 
have  no  part  in  its  consolations,  and  they  do  but  fret 
my  sorrow  the  more.' 

'  Nay,  feeble  brother,  be  not  as  one  who  hath  never 
known  the  light,'  said  the  elder  Quaker,  earnestly,  but 
with  mildness.  '  Art  thou  he  that  wouldst  be  content 
to  give  all,  and  endure  all,  for  conscience'  sake;  desiring 
even  peculiar  trials,  that  thy  faith  might  be  purified, 


THE      GENTLE      BOY.  135 

and  thy  heart  weaned  from  worldly  desires  ?  And  wilt 
thou  sink  beneath  an  affliction  which  happens  alike  to 
them  that  have  their  portion  here  below,  and  to  them 
that  lay  up  treasure  in  heaven  1  Faint  not,  for  thy 
burthen  is  yet  light.' 

'  It  is  heavy  !  It  is  heavier  than  I  can  bear !'  ex 
claimed  Pearson,  with  the  impatience  of  a  variable 
spirit.  '  From  my  youth  upward  I  have  been  a  man 
marked  out  for  wrath ;  and  year  by  year,  yea,  day 
after  day,  I  have  endured  sorrows  such  as  others  know 
not  in  their  life-time.  And  now  I  speak  not  of  the 
love  that  has  been  turned  to  hatred,  the  honor  to 
ignominy,  the  ease  and  plentifulness  of  all  things  to 
danger,  want,  and  nakedness.  All  this  I  could  have 
borne,  and  counted  myself  blessed.  But  when  my 
heart  was  desolate  with  many  losses,  I  fixed  it  upon 
the  child  of  a  stranger,  and  he  became  dearer  to  me 
than  all  my  buried  ones ;  and  now  he  too  must  die,  as 
if  my  love  were  poison.  Verily,  I  am  an  accursed 
man,  and  I  will  lay  me  down  in  the  dust,  and  lift  up 
my  head  no  more.' 

'  Thou  sinnest,  brother,  but  it  is  not  for  me  to 
rebuke  thee ;  for  I  also  have  had  my  hours  of  dark 
ness,  wherein  I  have  murmured  against  the  cross,' 
said  the  old  Quaker.  He  continued,  perhaps  in  the 
hope  of  distracting  his  companion's  thoughts  from  his 
own  sorrows.  '  Even  of  late  was  the  light  obscured 
within  me,  when  the  men  of  blood  had  banished  me 
on  pain  of  death,  and  the  constables  led  me  onward 


136  THE      GENTLE     BOY. 

from  village  to  village,  towards  the  wilderness.  A 
strong  and  cruel  hand  was  wielding  the  knotted  cords  ; 
they  sunk  deep  into  the  flesh,  and  thou  mightst  have 
tracked  every  reel  and  totter  of  my  footsteps  by  the 
blood  that  followed.  As  we  went  on' — 

*  Have  I  not  borne  all  this ;  and  have  I  murmured  ?' 
interrupted  Pearson,  impatiently. 

'  Nay,  friend,  but  hear  me,'  continued  the  other. 
'  As  we  journeyed  on,  night  darkened  on  our  path,  so 
that  no  man  could  see  the  rage  of  the  persecutors,  or 
the  constancy  of  my  endurance,  though  Heaven  forbid 
that  I  should  glory  therein.  The  lights  began  to 
glimmer  in  the  cottage  windows,  and  I  could  discern 
the  inmates  as  they  gathered,  in  comfort  and  security, 
every  man  with  his  wife  and  children  by  their  own 
evening  hearth.  At  length  we  came  to  a  tract  of 
fertile  land;  in  the  dim  light,  the  forest  was  not  visible 
around  it ;  and  behold  !  there  was  a  straw-thatched 
dwelling,  which  bore  the  very  aspect  of  my  home,  far 
over  the  wild  ocean,  far  in  our  own  England.  Then 
came  bitter  thoughts  upon  me ;  yea,  remembrances 
that  were  like  death  to  my  soul.  The  happiness  of 
my  early  days  was  painted  to  me  ;  the  disquiet  of  my 
manhood,  the  altered  faith  of  my  declining  years.  I 
remembered  how  I  had  been  moved  to  go  forth  a 
wanderer,  when  my  daughter,  the  youngest,  the  dearest 
of  my  flock,  lay  on  her  dying  bed,  and  ' — 

'  Couldst    thou    obey  the  command  at  such  a  mo 
ment  T   exclaimed  Pearson,  shuddering. 


THE      GENTLE      BOY.  137 

'  Yea,  yea,'  replied  the  old  man,  hurriedly.  '  I  was 
kneeling  by  her  bed-side  when  the  voice  spoke  loud 
within  me ;  but  immediately  I  rose,  and  took  my  staff, 
and  gat  me  gone.  Oh !  that  it  were  permitted  me  to 
forget  her  woeful  look,  when  I  thus  withdrew  my  arm, 
and  left  her  journeying  through  the  dark  valley  alone  ! 
for  her  soul  was  faint,  and  she  had  leaned  upon  my 
prayers.  Now  in  that  night  of  horror  I  was  assailed 
by  the  thought  that  I  had  been  an  erring  Christian, 
and  a  cruel  parent ;  yea,  even  my  daughter,  with  her 
pale,  dying  features,  seemed  to  stand  by  me  and 
whisper,  "  Father,  you  are  deceived ;  go  home  and 
shelter  your  grey  head."  Oh  !  thou,  to  whom  I  have 
looked  in  my  farthest  wanderings,'  continued  the 
Quaker,  raising  his  agitated  eyes  to  heaven,  '  inflict 
not  upon  the  bloodiest  of  our  persecutors  the  unmiti 
gated  agony  of  my  soul,  when  I  believed  that  all  I  had 
done  and  suffered  for  Thee  was  at  the  instigation  of  a 
mocking  fiend  !  But  I  yielded  not ;  I  knelt  down  and 
wrestled  with  the  tempter,  while  the  scourge  bit  more 
fiercely  into  the  flesh.  My  prayer  was  heard,  and  I 
went  on  in  peace  and  joy  towards  the  wilderness.' 

The  old  man,  though  his  fanaticism  had  generally 
all  the  calmness  of  reason,  was  deeply  moved  while 
reciting  this  tale ;  and  his  unwonted  emotion  seemed 
to  rebuke  and  keep  down  that  of  his  companion. 
They  sat  in  silence,  with  their  faces  to  the  fire, 
imagining,  perhaps,  in  its  red  embers,  new  scenes  of 
persecution  yet  to  be  encountered,  The  snow  still 


138  THE      GENTLE      BOY. 

drifted  hard  against  the  windows,  and  sometimes,  as 
the  blaze  of  the  logs  had  gradually  sunk,  came  down 
the  spacious  chimney  and  hissed  upon  the  hearth.  A 
cautious  footstep  might  now  and  then  be  heard  in  a 
neighboring  apartment,  and  the  sound  invariably  drew 
the  eyes  of  both  Quakers  to  the  door  which  led  thither. 
When  a  fierce  and  riotous  gust  of  wind  had  led  his 
thoughts,  by  a  natural  association,  to  homeless  travellers 
on  such  a  night,  Pearson  resumed  the  conversation. 

'  I  have  well  nigh  sunk  under  my  own  share  of  this 
trial,'  observed  he,  sighing  heavily  ;'  yet  I  would  that 
it  might  be  doubled  to  me,  if  so  the  .child's  mother 
could  be  spared.  Her  wounds  have  been  deep  and 
many,  but  this  will  be  the  sorest  of  all.' 

*  Fear  not  for  Catharine,'  replied  the  old  Quaker : 
'  for  I  know  that  valiant  woman,  and  have  seen  how 
she  can  bear  the  cross.  A  mother's  heart,  indeed,  is 
strong  in  her,  and  may  seem  to  contend  mightily  with 
her  faith ;  but  soon  she  will  stand  up  and  give  thanks 
that  her  son  has  been  thus  early  an  accepted  sacrifice. 
The  boy  hath  done  his  work,  and  she  will  feel  that  he 
is  taken  hence  in  kindness  both  to  him  and  her. 
Blessed,  blessed  are  they,  that  with  so  little  suffering 
can  enter  into  peace  !' 

The  fitful  rush  of  the  wind  was  now  disturbed  by  a 
portentous  sound ;  it  was  a  quick  and  heavy  knocking 
at  the  outer  door.  Pearson's  wan  countenance  grew 
paler,  for  many  a  visit  of  persecution  had  taught  him 
what  to  dread  ;  the  old  man,  on  the  other  hand,  stood 


THE      GENTLE      BOY.  139 

up  erect,  and  his  glance  was  firm  as  that  of  the  tried 
soldier  who  awaits  his  enemy. 

'  The  men  of  blood  have  come  to  seek  me/  he 
observed,  with  calmness.  'They  have  heard  how  I 
was  moved  to  return  from  banishment ;  and  now  am  I 
to  be  led  to  prison,  and  thence  to  death.  It  is  an  end 
I  have  long  looked  for.  I  will  open  unto  them,  lest 
they  say,  "  Lo,  he  feareth  !'"  >i<:- 

1  Nay,  I  will  present  myself  before  them,'  said 
Pearson,  with  recovered  fortitude.  '  It  may  be  that 
they  seek  me  alone,  and  know  not  that  thou  abidest 
with  me.' 

'  Let  us  go  boldly,  both  one  and  the  other,'  rejoined 
his  companion.  '  It  is  not  fitting  that  thou  or  I 
should  shrink.' 

They  therefore  proceeded  through  the  entry  to  the 
door,  which  they  opened,  bidding  the  applicant  '  Come 
in,  in  God's  name  !'  A  furious  blast  of  wind  drove 
the  storm  into  their  faces,  and  extinguished  the  lamp  ; 
they  had  barely  time  to  discern  a  figure,  so  white  from 
head  to  foot  with  the  drifted  snow,  that  it  seemed  like 
Winter's  self,  come  in  human  shape  to  seek  refuge 
from  its  own  desolation. 

'  Enter,  friend,  and  do  thy  errand,  be  it  what  it 
may,'  said  Pearson.  '  It  must  needs  be  pressing,  since 
thou  comest  on  such  a  bitter  night.' 

'  Peace  be  with  this  household,'  said  the  stranger, 
when  they  stood  on  the  floor  of  the  inner  apartment. 

Pearson  started,  the  elder  Quaker  stirred  the  slum- 


140  THE      GENTLE      BOY. 

bering  embers  of  the  fire,  till  they  sent  up  a  clear  and 
lofty  blaze ;  it  was  a  female  voice  that  had  spoken  ;  it 
was  a  female  form  that  shone  out,  cold  and  wintry,  in 
that  comfortable  light. 

*  Catharine,  blessed  woman,'  exclaimed  the  old  man, 
'  art  thou  come  to  this  darkened  land  again  !  art  thou 
come  to  bear  a  valiant  testimony  as  in  former  years  ? 
The  scourge  hath  not-prevailed  against  thee,  and  from 
the  dungeon  hast  thou  come  forth  triumphant ;  but 
strengthen,  strengthen  now  thy  heart,  Catharine,  for 
Heaven  will  prove  thee  yet  this  once,  ere  thou  go  to 
thy  reward.' 

'  Rejoice,  friends  !'  she  replied.  '  Thou  whe  hast 
long  been  of  our  people,  and  thou  whom  a  little  child 
hath  led  to  us,  rejoice  !  Lo  !  I  come,  the  messenger 
of  glad  tidings,  for  the  day  of  persecution  is  overpast. 
The  heart  of  the  king,  even  Charles,  hath  been  moved 
in  gentleness  towards  us,  and  he  hath  sent  forth  his 
letters  to  stay  the  hands  of  the  men  of  blood.  A 
ship's  company  of  our  friends  hath  arrived  at  yonder 
town,  and  I  also  sailed  joyfully  among  them.' 

As  Catharine  spoke,  her  eyes  were  roaming  about 
the  room,  in  search  of  him  for  whose  sake  security 
was  dear  to  her.  Pearson  made  a  silent  appeal  to  the 
old  man,  nor  did  the  latter  shrink  from  the  painful 
task  assigned  him. 

'  Sister,'  he  began,  in  a  softened  yet  perfectly  calm 
tone,  '  thou  tellest  us  of  His  love,  manifested  in  tem 
poral  good ;  and  now  must  we  speak  to  thee  of  that 
self-same  love,  displayed  in  chastenings.  Hitherto, 


THE      GENTLE      BOY.  141 

Catharine,  thou  hast  been  as  one  journeying  in  a  dark 
some  and  difficult  path,  and  leading  an  infant  by  the 
hand;  fain  wouldst  thou  have  looked  heavenward 
continually,  but  still  the  cares  of  that  little  child  have 
drawn  thine  eyes,  and  thy  affections,  to  the  earth. 
Sister  !  go  on  rejoicing,  for  his  tottering  footsteps  shall 
impede  thine  own  no  more.' 

But  the  unhappy  mother  was  not  thus  to  be  consoled  ; 
she  shook  like  a  leaf,  she  turned  white  as  the  very 
snow  that  hung  drifted  into  her  hair.  The  firm  old 
man  extended  his  hand  and  held  her  up,  keeping  his  eye 
upon  her's,  as  if  to  repress  any  outbreak  of  passion. 

'  I  am  a  woman,  I  am  but  a  woman ;  will  He  try  me 
above  my  strength  V  said  Catharine,  very  quickly,  and 
almost  in  a  whisper.  *  I  have  been  wounded  sore  ;  I 
have  suffered  much ;  many  things  in  the  body,  many 
in  the  mind ;  crucified  in  myself,  and  in  them  that 
were  dearest  to  me.  Surely,'  added  she,  with  a  long 
shudder,  '  He  hath  spared  me  in  this  one  thing.'  She 
broke  forth  with  sudden  and  irrepressible  violence. 
'  Tell  me,  man  of  cold  heart,  what  has  God  done  to 
me?  Hath  He  cast  me  down  never  to  rise  again? 
Hath  He  crushed  my  very  heart  in  his  hand?  And 
thou,  to  whom  I  committed  my  child,  how  hast  thou 
fulfilled  thy  trust?  Give  me  back  the  boy,  well, 
sound,  alive,  alive ;  or  earth  and  heaven  shall  avenge 
me!' 

The  agonized  shriek  of  Catharine  was  answered  by 
the  faint,  the  very  faint  voice  of  a  child. 
M 


142  THE      GENTLE      BOY. 

On  this  day  it  had  become  evident  to  Pearson,  to  his 
aged  guest,  and  to  Dorothy,  that  Ilbrahim's  brief  and 
troubled  pilgrimage  drew  near  its  close.  The  two 
former  would  willingly  have  remained  by  him,  to  make 
use  of  the  prayers  and  pious  discourses  which  they 
deemed  appropriate  to  the  time,  and  which,  if  they  be 
impotent  as  to  the  departing  traveller's  reception  in 
the  world  whither  he  goes,  may  at  least  sustain  him  in 
bidding  adieu  to  earth.  But  though  Ilbrahim  uttered 
no  complaint,  he  was  disturbed  by  the  faces  that 
looked  upon  him;  so  that  Dorothy's  entreaties,  and 
their  own  conviction  that  the  child's  feet  might  tread 
heaven's  pavement  and  not  soil  it,  had  induced  the  two 
Quakers  to  remove.  Ilbrahim  then  closed  his  eyes 
and  grew  calm,  and,  except  for  now  and  then,  a  kind 
and  low  word  to  his  nurse,  might  have  been  thought  to 
slumber.  As  night-fall  came  on,  however,  and  the 
storm  began  to  rise,  something  seemed  to  trouble  the 
repose  of  the  boy's  mind,  and  to  render  his  sense  of 
hearing  active  and  acute.  If  a  passing  wind  lingered 
to  shake  the  casement,  he  strove  to  turn  his  head 
towards  it;  if  the  door  jarred  to  and  fro  upon  its 
hinges,  he  looked  long  and  anxiously  thitherward ;  if 
the  heavy  voice  of  the  old  man,  as  he  read  the 
scriptures,  rose  but  a  little  higher,  the  child  almost 
held  his  dying  breath  to  listen  ;  if  a  snow-drift  swept 
by  the  cottage,  with  a  sound  like  the  trailing  of  a 
garment,  Ilbrahim  seemed  to  watch  that  some  visitant 
should  enter. 


THE      GENTLE      BOY.  143 

But,  after  a  little  time,  he  relinquished  whatever 
secret  hope  had  agitated  him,  and,  with  one  low,  com 
plaining  whisper,  turned  his  cheek  upon  the  pillow. 
He  then  addressed  Dorothy  with  his  usual  sweetness, 
and  besought  her  to  draw  near  him ;  she  did  so,  and 
Ilbrahim  took  her  hand  in  both  of  his,  grasping  it  with 
a  gentle  pressure,  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  he  re 
tained  it.  At  intervals,  and  without  disturbing  the 
repose  of  his  countenance,  a  very  faint  trembling  passed 
over  him  from  head  to  foot,  as  if  a  mild  but  somewhat 
cool  wind  had  breathed  upon  him,  and  made  him 
shiver.  As  the  boy  thus  led  her  by  the  hand,  in  his 
quiet  progress  over  the  borders  of  eternity,  Dorothy 
almost  imagined  that  she  could  discern  the  near, 
though  dim  delightfulness,  of  the  home  he  was  about 
to  reach ;  she  would  not  have  enticed  the  little  wan 
derer  back,  though  she  bemoaned  herself  that  she 
must  leave  him  and  return.  But  just  when  Ilbrahim's 
feet  were  pressing  on  the  soil  of  Paradise,  he  heard  a 
voice  behind  him,  and  it  recalled  him  a  few,  few  paces 
of  the  weary  path  which  he  had  travelled.  As  Dor 
othy  looked  upon  his  features,  she  perceived  that 
their  placid  expression  was  again  disturbed ;  her  own 
thoughts  had  been  so  wrapt  in  him,  that  all  sounds  of 
the  storm,  and  of  human  speech,  were  lost  to  her;  but 
when  Catharine's  shriek  pierced  through  the  room,  the 
boy  strove  to  raise  himself. 

'  Friend,  she  is  come  !     Open  unto  her  !'  cried  he. 

In  a  moment,  his  mother  was  kneeling  by  the  bed- 


144  THE      GENTLE      BOY. 

side ;  she  drew  Ilbrahim  to  her  bosom,  and  he  nestled 
there,  with  no  violence  of  joy,  but  contentedly  as  if  he 
were  hushing  himself  to  sleep.  He  looked  into  her 
face,  and  reading  its  agony,  said,  with  feeble  earnest 
ness  ; 

'  Mourn  not,  dearest  mother.     I    am   happy  now.' 

And  with  these  words,  the  gentle  boy  was  dead. 

*         *         *         *         * 

The  king's  mandate  to  stay  the  New  England  perse 
cutors  was  effectual  in  preventing  further  martyrdoms; 
but  the  colonial  authorities,  trusting  in  the  remoteness 
of  their  situation,  and  perhaps  in  the  supposed  insta 
bility  of  the  royal  government,  shortly  renewed  their 
severities  in  all  other  respects.  Catharine's  fanaticism 
had  become  wilder  by  the  sundering  of  all  human  ties ; 
and  wherever  a  scourge  was  lifted,  there  was  she  to 
receive  the  blow  ;  and  whenever  a  dungeon  was  un 
barred,  thither  she  came,  to  cast  herself  upon  the  floor. 
But  in  process  of  time,  a  more  Christian  spirit — a  spirit 
of  forbearance,  though  not  of  cordiality  or  approbation, 
began  to  pervade  the  land  in  regard  to  the  persecuted 
sect.  And  then,  when  the  rigid  old  Pilgrims  eyed  her 
rather  in  pity  than  in  wrath;  when  the  matrons  fed 
her  with  the  fragments  of  their  children's  food,  and 
offered  her  a  lodging  on  a  hard  and  lowly  bed ;  when 
no  little  crowd  of  school-boys  left  their  sports  to  cast 
stones  after  the  roving  enthusiast ;  then  did  Catharine 
return  to  Pearson's  dwelling,  and  made  that  her  home. 

As  if  Ilbrahim's  sweetness  yet  lingered  round  his 


THE      GENTLE      BOY.  145 

ashes ;  as  if  his  gentle  spirit  came  down  from  heaven 
to  teach  his  parent  a  true  religion,  her  fierce  and 
vindictive  nature  was  softened  by  the  same  griefs 
which  had  once  irritated  it.  When  the  course  of  years 
had  made  the  features  of  the  unobtrusive  mourner 
familiar  in  the  settlement,  she  became  a  subject  of  not 
deep,  but  general  interest ;  a  being  on  whom  the 
otherwise  superfluous  sympathies  of  all  might  be 
bestowed.  Every  one  spoke  of  her  with  that  degree 
of  pity  which  it  is  pleasant  to  experience ;  every  one 
was  ready  to  do  her  the  little  kindnesses,  which  are  not 
costly,  yet  manifest  good  will ;  and  when  at  last  She 
died,  a  long  train  of  her  once  bitter  persecutors  fol 
lowed  her,  with  decent  sadness  and  tears  that  were  not 
painful,  to  her  place  by  Ilbrahim's  green  and  sunken 
grave. 


MR.     HIGGINBOTHAM'S 
T  A  STROPHE. 


CA- 


MR.     HIGGINBOTHAM'S     CATAS 
TROPHE. 


A  YOUNG  fellow,  a  tobacco-pedler  by  trade,  was  on 
his  way  from  Morristown,  where  he  had  dealt  largely 
with  the  Deacon  of  the  Shaker  settlement,  to  the  village 
of  Parker's  Falls  on  Salmon  River.  He  had  a  neat 
little  cart,  painted  green,  with  a  box  of  cigars  depicted 
on  each  side-panel,  and  an  Indian  chief,  holding  a 
pipe  and  a  golden  tobacco-stalk,  on  the  rear.  The 
pedler  drove  a  smart  little  mare,  and  was  a  young  man 
of  excellent  character,  keen  at  a  bargain,  but  none  the 
worse  liked  by  the  Yankees ;  who,  as  I  have  heard 
them  say,  would  rather  be  shaved  with  a  sharp  razor 
than  a  dull  one.  Especially  was  he  beloved  by  the 
pretty  girls  along  the  Connecticut,  whose  favor  he  used 
to  court  by  presents  of  the  best  smoking-tobacco  in  his 
stock  ;  knowing  well  that  the  country  lasses  of  New 


150  MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM'S    CATASTROPHE. 

England  are  generally  great  performers  on  pipes. 
Moreover,  as  will  be  seen  in  the  course  of  my  story, 
the  pedler  was  inquisitive,  and  something  of  a  tattler, 
always  itching  to  hear  the  news  and  anxious  to  tell  it 
again. 

After  an  early  breakfast  at  Morristown,  the  tobacco- 
pedler,  whose  name  was  Dominicus  Pike,  had  travel 
led  seven  miles  through  a  solitary  piece  of  woods,  with 
out  speaking  a  word  to  any  body  but  himself  and  his 
little  gray  mare.  It  being  nearly  seven  o'clock,  he 
was  as  eager  to  hold  a  morning  gossip,  as  a  city  shop 
keeper  to  read  the  morning  paper.  An  opportunity 
seemed  at  hand,  when  after  lighting  a  cigar  with  a 
sun-glass,  he  looked  up,  and  perceived  a  man  coming 
over  the  brow  of  the  hill,  at  the  foot  of  which  the  pedler 
had  stopped  his  green  cart.  Dominicus  watched  him 
as  he  descended,  and  noticed  that  he  carried  a  bundle 
over  his  shoulder  on  the  end  of  a  stick,  and  travelled 
with  a  weary,  yet  determined  pace.  He  did  not  look 
as  if  he  had  started  in  the  freshness  of  the  morning, 
but  had  footed  it  all  night,  and  meant  to  do  the  same 
all  day. 

*  Good  morning,  mister,'  said  Dominicus,  when 
within  speaking  distance.  '  You  go  a  pretty  good 
jog.  What's  the  latest  news  at  Parker's  Falls  V 

The  man  pulled  the  broad  brim  of  a  gray  hat  over 
his  eyes,  and  answered,  rather  sullenly,  that  he  did 
not  come  from  Parker's  Falls,  which,  as  being  the 
limit  of  his  own  day's  journey,  the  pedler  had  naturally 
mentioned  in  his  inquiry. 


MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM'S    CAT  A  STROPHE  .  151 

'  Well,  then,'  rejoined  Dominicus  Pike,  '  let's  have 
the  latest  news  where  you  did  come  from.  I'm  not 
particular  about  Parker's  Falls.  Any  place  will 
answer.' 

Being  thus  importuned,  the  traveller — who  was  as 
ill-looking  a  fellow  as  one  would  desire  to  meet,  in  a 
solitary  piece  of  woods — appeared  to  hesitate  a  little, 
as  if  he  was  either  searching  his  memory  for  news,  or 
weighing  the  expediency  of  telling  it.  At  last  mount 
ing  on  the  step  of  the  cart,  he  whispered  in  the  ear  of 
Dominicus,  though  he  might  have  shouted  aloud,  and 
no  other  mortal  would  have  heard  him. 

'  I  do  remember  one  little  trifle  of  news,'  said  he. 
'  Old  Mr  Higginbotham,  of  Kimballton,  was  murdered 
in  his  orchard,  at  eight  o'clock  last  night,  by  an  Irish 
man  and  a  nigger.  They  strung  him  up  to  the  branch 
of  a  St.  Michael's  pear-tree,  where  nobody  would  find 
him  till  the  morning.' 

As  soon  as  this  horrible  intelligence  was  communica 
ted,  the  stranger  betook  himself  to  his  journey  again, 
with  more  speed  than  ever,  not  even  turning  his  head 
when  Dominicus  invited  him  to  smoke  a  Spanish  cigar 
and  relate  all  the  particulars.  The  pedler  whistled  to 
his  mare  and  went  up  the  hill,  pondering  on  the  dole 
ful  fate  of  Mr.  Higginbotham,  whom  he  had  known  in 
the  way  of  trade,  having  sold  him  many  a  bunch  of 
long  nines,  and  a  great  deal  of  pig-tail,  lady's  twist, 
and  fig  tobacco.  He  was  rather  astonished  at  the 
rapidity  with  which  the  news  had  spread.  Kimballton 


152  MR.    HIGGINBOTHAM'S    CATASTROPHE. 

was  nearly  sixty  miles  distant  in  a  straight  line ;  the 
murder  had  been  perpetrated  only  at  eight  o'clock 
the  preceding  night ;  yet  Dominicus  had  heard  of  it 
at  seven  in  the  morning,  when,  in  all  probability,  poor 
Mr.  Higginbotharn's  own  family  had  but  just  discover 
ed  his  corpse,  hanging  on  the  St.  Michael's  pear-tree. 
The  stranger  on  foot  must  have  worn  seven-league 
boots,  to  travel  at  such  a  rate. 

'  111  news  flies  fast,  they  say,'  thought  Dominicus 
Pike  ;  '  but  this  beats  railroads.  The  fellow  ought 
to  be  hired  to  go  express  with  the  President's  Mes 
sage.' 

The  difficulty  was  solved,  by  supposing  that  the 
narrator  had  made  a  mistake  of  one  day,  in  the  date 
of  the  occurrence ;  so  that  our  friend  did  not  hesitate 
to  introduce  the  story  at  every  tavern  and  country-store 
along  the  road,  expending  a  whole  bunch  of  Spanish- 
wrappers  among  at  least  twenty  horrified  audiences. 
He  found  himself  invariably  the  first  bearer  of  the 
intelligence,  and  was  so  pestered  with  questions  that 
he  could  not  avoid  filling  up  the  outline,  lill  it  became 
quite  a  respectable  narrative.  He  met  with  one  piece 
of  corroborative  evidence.  Mr.  Higginbotham  was  a 
trader;  and  a  former  clerk  of  his  to  whom  Dominicus 
related  the  facts,  testified  that  the  old  gentleman  was 
accustomed  to  return  home  through  the  orchard, 
about  night-fall,  with  the  money  and  valuable  papers 
of  the  store  in  his  pocket.  The  clerk  manifested  but 
little  grief  at  Mr.  Higginbotham's  catastrophe,  hinting, 


MR.    HIGGINBOTHAM'S    c  AT  A  STROPH  E  .  153 

what  the  pedler  had  discovered  in  his  own  dealings 
with  him,  that  he  was  a  crusty  old  fellow,  as  close  as 
a  vise.  His  property  would  descend  to  a  pretty  niece 
who  was  now  keeping  school  in  Kimballton. 

What  with  telling  the  news  for  the  public  good,  and 
driving  bargains  for  his  own,  Dominicus  was  so  much 
delayed  on  the  road,  that  he  chose  to  put  up  at  a 
tavern,  about  five  miles  short  of  Parker's  Falls.  After 
supper,  lighting  one  of  his  prime  cigars,  he  seated 
himself  in  the  bar-room,  and  went  through  the  story 
of  the  murder,  which  had  grown  so  fast  that  it  took 
him  half  an  hour  to  tell.  There  were  as  many  as 
twenty  people  in  the  room,  nineteen  of  whom  received 
it  all  for  gospel.  But  the  twentieth  was  an  elderly 
farmer,  who  had  arrived  on  horseback  a  short  time  be 
fore,  and  was  now  seated  in  a  corner,  smoking  his 
pipe.  When  the  story  was  concluded,  he  rose  up  very 
deliberately,  brought  his  chair  right  in  front  of  Do 
minicus,  and  stared  him  full  in  the  face,  puffing  out  the 
vilest  tobacco  smoke  the  pedler  had  ever  smelt. 

'  Will  you  make  affidavit,'  demanded  he,  in  the  tone 
of  a  country  justice  taking  an  examination,  '  that  old 
Squire  Higginbotham  of  Kimballton  was  murdered  in 
his  orchard  the  night  before  last,  and  found  Changing 
on  his  great  pear-tree  yesterday  morning  ?' 

'  I  tell  the  story  as  I  heard  it,  mister,'  answered 
Dominicus,  dropping  his  half-burnt  cigar  ;  '  I  don't  say 
that  I  saw  the  thing  done.  So  I  can't  take  my  oath 
that  he  was  murdered  exactly  in  that  way.' 


154  MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM'S    CATASTROPHE. 

'  But  I  can  take  mine/  said  the  farmer,  that  if  Squire 
Higginbotham  was  murdered  night  before  last,  I  drank 
a  glass  of  bitters  with  his  ghost  this  morning.  Being 
a  neighbor  of  mine,  he  called  me  into  his  store,  as  I 
was  riding  by,  and  treated  me,  arid  then  asked  me  to 
do  a  little  business  for  him  on  the  road.  He  did'nt 
seem  to  know  any  more  about  his  own  murder  than  I 
did.' 

'  Why,  then  it  can't  be  a  fact !'  exclaimed  Dominicus 
Pike. 

'I  guess  he'd  have  mentioned,  if  it  was,'  said  the 
old  farmer;  and  he  removed  his  chair  back  to  the 
corner,  leaving  Dominicus  quite  down  in,  the  mouth. 

Here  was  a  sad  resurrection  of  old  Mr.  Higgin 
botham  !  The  pedler  had  no  heart  to  mingle  in  the 
conversation  any  more,  but  comforted  himself  with  a 
glass  of  gin  and  water,  and  went  to  bed,  where,  all 
night  long,  he  dreamt  of  hanging  on  the  St.  Michael's 
pear-tree.  To  avoid  the  old  farmer  (whom  he  so  de 
tested,  that  his  suspension  would  have  pleased  him 
better  than  Mr.  Higginbotham's),  Doainicus  rose  in 
the  gray  of  the  morning,  put  the  little  mare  into  the 
green  cart,  and  trotted  swiftly  away  towards  Parker's 
Falls.  .The  fresh  breeze,  the  dewy  road,  and  the 
pleasant  summer  dawn,  revived  his  spirits,  and  might 
have  encouraged  him  to  repeat  the  old  story,  had  there 
been  any  body  awake  to  hear  it.  But  he  met  neither 
ox-team,  light  wagon,  chaise,  horseman,  nor  foot-travel 
ler,  till  just  as  he  crossed  Salmon  River,  a  man  came 


MR.   HIGGINBOTHAM'S    CATASTROPHE.  155 

trudging  down  to   the  bridge  with  a  bundle  over  his 
shoulder,  on  the  end  of  a- stick. 

'  Good  morning,  mister,'  said  the  pedler,  reining  in 
his  mare.  '  If  you  come  from  Kimballton  or  that 
neighborhood,  may  be  you  can  tell  me  the  real  fact 
about  this  affair  of  old  Mr.  Higginbotham.  Was  the 
old  fellow  actually  murdered  two  or  three  nights  ago, 
by  an  Irishman  and  a  nigger '?' 

Dominicus  had  spoken  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  ob 
serve,  at  first,  that  the  stranger  himself  had  a  deep 
tinge  of  negro  blood.  On  hearing  this  sudden  question, 
the  Ethiopian  appeared  to  change  his  skin,  its  yellow 
hue  becoming  a  ghastly  white,  while,  shaking  and 
stammering,  he  thus  replied  : — 

*  No  !  no  !  There  was  no  colored  man  !  It  was  an 
Irishman  that  hanged  him  last  night,  at  eight  o'clock. 
I  came  away  at  seven  !  His  folks  can't  have  looked  for 
him  in  the  orchard  yet.' 

Scarcely  had  the  yellow  man  spoken,  when  he  in 
terrupted  himself,  and  though  he  seemed  weary  enough 
before,  continued  his  journey  at  a  pace,  which  would 
have  kept  the  pedler's  mare  on  a  smart  trot.  Domin 
icus  stared  after  him  in  great  perplexity.  If  the  murder 
had  not  been  committed  till  Tuesday  night,  who  was 
the  prophet  that  had  foretold  it,  in  all  its  circumstances, 
on  Tuesday  morning'?  If  Mr.  Higginbotham's  corpse 
were  not  yet  discovered  by  his  own  family,  how  came 
the  mulatto,  at  above  thirty  miles  distance,  to  know 
that  he  was  hanging  in  the  orchard,  especially  as  he 


156   MR.    HIGGINBOTHAM'S    CATASTROPHE. 

had  left  Kimballton  before  the  unfortunate  man  was 
hanged  at  all.  These  ambiguous  circumstances,  with 
the  stranger's  surprise  and  terror,  made  Dominicus 
think  of  raising  a  hue  and  cry  after  him,  as  an  accom 
plice  in  the  murder  ;  since  a  murder,  it  seemed,  had 
really  been  perpetrated. 

'  But  let  the  poor  devil  go,'  thought  the  pedler. 
'  I  don't  want  his  black  blood  on  my  head  ;  and  hang 
ing  the  nigger  would'nt  unhang  Mr.  Higginbotham. 
Unhang  the  old  gentleman  !  It's  a  sin,  I  know ;  but  I 
should  hate  to  have  him  come  to  life  a  second  time, 
and  give  me  the  lie  !' 

With  these  meditations,  Dominicus  Pike  drove  into 
the  street  of  Parker's  Falls,  which,  as  every  body 
knows,  is  as  thriving  as  three  cotton  factories  and  a 
slitting  mill  can  make  it.  The  machinery  was  not 
in  motion,  and  but  a  few  of  the  shop  doors  unbarred, 
when  he  alighted  in  the  stable  yard  of  the  tavern,  and 
made  it  his  first  business  to  order  the  mare  four  quarts 
of  oats.  His  second  duty,  of  course  was  to  impart  Mr. 
Higginbotham's  catastrophe  to  the  ostler.  He  deemed 
it  advisable,  however,  not  to  be  too  positive  as  to  the 
date  of  the  direful  fact,  and  also  to  be  uncertain 
whether  it  were  perpetrated  by  an  Irishman  and  a 
mulatto,  or  by  the  son  of  Erin  alone.  Neither  did  he 
profess  to  relate  it  on  his  own  authority,  or  that  of  any 
one  person ;  but  mentioned  it  as  a  report  generally 
diffused. 

The  story   ran  through  the  town  like  fire  among 


MR.    HIGGINBOTHAM'S    CATASTROPHE.  157 

girdled  trees,  and  became  so  much  the  universal  talk, 
that  nobody  could  tell  whence  it  had  originated.  Mr. 
Higgiribotham  was  as  well  known  at  Parker's  Falls  as 
any  citizen  of  the  place,  being  part  owner  of  the  slit 
ting  mill,  and  a  considerable  stockholder  in  the  cotton 
factories.  .  The  inhabitants  felt  their  own  prosperity 
interested  in  his  fate.  Such  was  the  excitement,  that 
the  Parker's  Falls  Gazette  anticipated  its  regular  day 
of  publication,  and  came  out  with  half  a  form  of  blank 
paper  and  a  column  of  double  pica  emphasized  with 
capitals,  and  headed  HORRID  MURDER  OF  MR. 
HIGGINBOTHAM  !  Among  other  dreadful  details, 
the  printed  account  described  the  mark  of  the  cord 
round  the  dead  man's  neck,  and  stated  the  number  of 
thousand  dollars  of  which  he  had  been  robbed ;  there 
was  much  pathos  also  about  the  affliction  of  his  niece, 
who  had  gone  from  one  fainting  fit  to  another,  ever 
since  her  uncle  was  found  hanging  on  the  St.  Michael's 
pear-tree  with  his  pockets  inside  out.  The  village 
poet  likewise  commemorated  the  young  lady's  grief  in 
seventeen  stanzas  of  a  ballad.  The  selectmen  held  a 
meeting,  and  in  consideration  of  Mr.  Higginbotham's 
claims  on  the  town,  determined  to  issue  handbills, 
offering  a  reward  of  five  hundred  dollars  for  the  appre 
hension  of  his  murderers,  and  the  recovery  of  the  stolen 
property. 

Meanwhile,  the  whole  population  of  Parker's  Falls, 
consisting  of  shopkeepers,  mistresses  of  boarding 
houses,  factory  girls,  rnillmen,  and  schoolboys,  rushed 


158  MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM'S  CATASTROPHE. 

into  the  street  and  kept  up  such  a  terrible  loquacity, 
as  more  than  compensated  for  the  silence  of  the  cotton 
machines,  which  refrained  from  their  usual  din  out  of 
respect  to  the  deceased.  Had  Mr.  Higginbotham 
cared  about  posthumous  renown,  his  untimely  ghost 
would  have  exulted  in  this  tumult.  Our  friend  Do- 
minicus,  in  his  vanity  of  heart,  forgot  his  intended  pre 
cautions,  and  mounting  on  the  town  pump,  announced 
himself  as  the  bearer  of  the  authentic  intelligence 
which  had  caused  so  wonderful  a  sensation.  He  im 
mediately  became  the  great  man  of  the  moment,  and 
had  just  begun  a  new  edition  of  the  narrative,  with  a 
voice  like  a  field  preacher,  when  the  mail  stage  drove 
into  the  village  street.  It  had  travelled  all  night,  and 
must  have  shifted  horses,  at  Kimballton  at  three  in  the 
morning. 

'  Now  we  shall  hear  all  the  particulars,'  shouted  the 
crowd. 

The  coach  rumbled  up  to  the  piazza  of  the  tavern, 
followed  by  a  thousand  people;  for  if  any  man  had 
been  minding  his  own  business  till  then,  he  now  left 
it  at  sixes  and  sevens,  to  hear  the  news.  The  pedler, 
foremost  in  the  race,  discovered  two  passengers,  both 
of  whom  had  been  startled  from  a  comfortable  nap  to 
find  themselves  in  the  centre  of  a  mob.  Every  man 
assailing  them  with  separate  questions,  all  propound 
ed  at  once,  the  couple  were  struck  speechless,  though 
one  was  a  lawyer  and  the  other  a  young  lady. 

'  Mr.  Higginbotham !    Mr.  Higginbotham  !    Tell  us 


MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM'S  CATASTROPHE.  159 

the  particulars  about  old  Mr.  Higginbotham !'  bawled 
the  mob.  '  What  is  the  coroner's  verdict  1  Are  the 
murderers  apprehended  ?  Is  Mr.  Higginbotham's  niece 
come  out  of  her  fainting  fits  1  Mr.  Higginbotham ! 
Mr.  Higginbotham  ! !' 

The  coachman  said  not  a  word,  except  to  swear 
awfully  at  the  ostler  for  not  bringing  him  a  fresh  team 
of  horses.  The  lawyer  inside  had  generally  his  wits 
about  him  even  when  asleep ;  the  first  thing  he  did, 
after  learning  the  cause  of  the  excitement,  was  to  pro 
duce  a  large  red  pocket-book.  Meantime,  Dominicus 
Pike,  being  an  extremely  polite  young  man,  and  also 
suspecting  that  a  female  tongue  would  tell  the  story 
as  glibly  as  a  lawyer's,  had  handed  the  lady  out  of  the 
coach.  She  was  a  fine  smart  girl,  now  wide  awake 
and  bright  as  a  button,  and  had  such  a  sweet  pretty 
mouth,  that  Dominicus  would  almost  as  lieves  have 
heard  a  love  tale  from  it  as  a  tale  of  murder. 

'  Gentlemen  and  ladies,'  said  the  lawyer,  to  the 
shopkeepers,  the  millmen,  and  the  factory  girls,  '  I  can 
assure  you  that  some  unaccountable  mistake,  or,  more 
probably,  a  wilful  falsehood,  maliciously  contrived  to 
injure  Mr.  Higginbotham's  credit,  has  excited  this  sin 
gular  uproar.  We  passed  through  Kimballton  at  three 
o'clock  this  morning,  and  most  certainly  should  have 
been  informed  of  the  murder,  had  any  been  perpetrated. 
But  I  have  proof  nearly  as  strong  as  Mr.  Higginbo 
tham's  own  oral  testimony,  in  the  negative.  Here  is  a 
note,  i elating  to  a  suit  of  his  in  the  Connecticut  courts, 


160"  MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM'S  CATASTROPHE. 

which  was   delivered  me  from  that  gentleman  himself. 
I  find  it  dated  at  ten  o'clock  last  evening.' 

So  saying,  the  lawyer  exhibited  the  date  and  signa 
ture  of  the  note,  which  irrefragably  proved,  either  that 
this  perverse  Mr.  Higginbotham  was  alive  when  he 
wrote  it,  or, — as  some  deemed  the  more  probable  case, 
of  two  doubtful  ones, — that  he  was  so  absorbed  in 
worldly  business  as  to  continue  to  transact  it,  even 
after  his  death.  But  unexpected  evidence  was  forth 
coming.  The  young  lady,  after  listening  to  the  pedler's 
explanation,  merely  seized  a  moment  to  smooth  her 
gown  and  put  her  curls  in  order,  and  then  appeared  at 
the  tavern  door,  making  a  modest  signal  to  be  heard. 

'  Good  people,'  said  she,  '  I  am  Mr.  Higginbotham's 
niece.' 

A  wondering  murmur  passed  through  the  crowd,  on 
beholding  her  so  rosy  and  bright ;  that  same  unhappy 
niece,  whom  they  had  supposed,  on  the  authority  of 
the  Parker's  Falls  Gazette,  to  be  lying  at  death's  door 
in  a  fainting  fit.  But  some  shrewd  fellows  had  doubt 
ed  all  along  whether  a  young  lady  would  be  quite  so 
desperate  at  the  hanging  of  a  rich  old  uncle. 

'  You  see,'  continued  Miss  Higginbotham,  with  a 
smile,  '  that  this  strange  story  is  quite  unfounded,  as 
to  myself;  and  I  believe  I  may  affirm  it  to  be  equally 
so  in  regard  to  my  dear  uncle  Higginbotham.  He  has 
the  kindness  to  give  me  a  home  in  his  house,  though 
I  contribute  to  my  own  support  by  teaching  a  school. 
I  left  Kimballton  this  morning  to  spend  the  vacation 


MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM'S  CATASTROPHE.  161 

of  commencement  week  with  a  friend,  about  five 
miles  from  Parker's  Falls.  My  generous  uncle,  when 
he  heard  me  on  the  stairs,  called  me  to  his  bed-side, 
and  gave  me  two  dollars  and  fifty  cents,  to  pay  my 
stage  fare,  and  another  dollar  for  my  extra  expenses. 
He  then  laid  his  pocket  book  under  his  pillow,  shook 
hands  with  me,  and  advised  me  to  take  some  biscuit 
in  my  bag,  instead  of  breakfasting  on  the  road.  I  feel 
confident,  therefore,  that  I  left  my  beloved  relative 
alive,  and  trust  that  I  shall  find  him  so  on  rny  return.' 
The  young  lady  courtesied  at  the  close  of  her  speech, 
which  was  so  sensible,  and  well-worded,  and  delivered 
with  such  grace  and  propriety,  that  every  body  thought 
her  fit  to  be  Preceptress  of  the  best  Academy  in  the 
State.  But  a  stranger  would  have  supposed  that  Mr. 
Higginbotham  was  an  object  of  abhorrence  at  Parker's 
Falls,  and  that  a  thanksgiving  had  been  proclaimed  for 
his  murder ;  so  excessive  was  the  wrath  of  the  inhabi 
tants,  on  learning  their  mistake.  The  millmen  re 
solved  to  bestow  public  honors  on  Dominicus  Pike, 
only  hesitating  whether  to  tar  and  feather  him,  ride 
him  on  a  rail,  or  refresh  him  with  an  ablution  at  the 
town  pump,  on  the  top  of  which  he  had  declared  him 
self  the  bearer  of  the  news.  The  selectmen,  by  advice 
of  the  lawyer,  spoke  of  prosecuting  him  for  a  misde 
meanor,  in  circulating  unfounded  reports,  to  the  great 
disturbance  of  the  peace  of  the  commonwealth.  No 
thing  saved  Dominicus,  either  from  mob-law  or  a  court 
of  justice,  but  an  eloquent  appeal  made  by  the  young 


162    MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM'S    CATASTROPHE. 

lady  in  his  behalf.  Addressing  a  few  words  of  heart 
felt  gratitude  to  his  benefactress,  he  mounted  the  green 
cart  and  rode  out  of  town,  under  a  discharge  of  artil 
lery  from  the  schoolboys,  who  found  plenty  of  ammu 
nition  in  the  neighboring  clay-pits  and  mud  holes.  As 
he  turned  his  head,  to  exchange  a  farewell  glance  with 
Mr.  Higginbotham's  niece,  a  ball,  of  the  consistence 
of  hasty-pudding,  hit  him  slap  in  the  mouth,  giving 
him  a  most  grim  aspect.  His  whole  person  was  so 
bespattered  with  the  like  filthy  missiles,  that  he  had 
almost  a  mind  to  ride  back,  and  supplicate  for  the 
threatened  ablution  at  the  town  pump ;  for,  though  not 
meant  in  kindness,  it  would  now  have  been  a  deed  of 
charity. 

However,  the  sun  shone  bright  on  poor  Dominicus, 
and  the  mud,  an  emblem  of  all  stains  of  undeserved 
opprobrium,  was  easily  brushed  off  when  dry.  Being 
a  funny  rogue,  his  heart  soon  cheered  up ;  nor  could 
he  refrain  from  a  hearty  laugh  at  the  uproar  which  his 
story  had  excited.  The  handbills  of  the  selectmen 
would  cause  the  commitment  of  all  the  vagabonds  in 
the  State  ;  the  paragraph  in  the  Parker's  Falls  Gazette 
would  be  reprinted  from  Maine  to  Florida,  and  per 
haps  form  an  item  in  the  London  newspapers ;  and 
many  a  miser  would  tremble  for  his  money-bags  and 
life,  on  learning  the  catastrophe  of  Mr.  Higginbotham. 
The  pedler  meditated  with  much  fervor  on  the  charms 
of  the  young  schoolmistress,  and  swore  that  Daniel 
Webster  never  spoke  nor  looked  so  like  an  angel  as 


MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM'S    CATASTROPHE.  163 

Miss   Higginbotham,  while  defending    him    from  the 
wrathful  populace  at  Parker's  Falls. 

Dominicus  was  now  on  the  Kimballton  turnpike, 
having  all  along  determined  to  visit  that  place,  though 
business  had  drawn  him  out  of  the  most  direct  road 
from  Morristown.  As  he  approached  the  scene  of  the 
supposed  murder,  he  continued  to  revolve  the  circum 
stances  in  his  mind,  and  was  astonished  at  the  aspect 
which  the  whole  case  assumed.  Had  nothing  occurred 
to  corroborate  the  story  of  the  first  traveller,  it  might 
now  have  been  considered  as  a  hoax ;  but  the  yellow 
man  was  evidently  acquainted  either  with  the  report 
or  the  fact ;  and  there  was  a  mystery  in  his  dismayed 
and  guilty  look  on  being  abruptly  questioned.  When, 
to  this  singular  combination  of  incidents,  it  was  added 
that  the  rumor  tallied  exactly  with  Mr.  Higginbotham's 
character  and  habits  of  life ;  and  that  he  had  an 
orchard,  and  a  St.  Michael's  pear-tree,  near  which  he 
always  passed  at  night-fall ;  the  circumstantial  evidence 
appeared  so  strong,  that  Dominicus  doubted  whether 
the  autograph  produced  by  the  lawyer,  or  even  the 
niece's  direct  testimony,  ought  to  be  equivalent.  Mak 
ing  cautious  inquiries  along  the  road,  the  pedler  further 
learned  that  Mr.  Higginbotham  had  in  his  service  an 
Irishman  of  doubtful  character,  whom  he  had  hired 
without  a  recommendation,  on  the  score  of  economy. 

'  May  I  be  hanged  myself,'  exclaimed  Dominicus 
Pike  aloud,  on  reaching  the  top  of  a  lonely  hill,  '  if 
I'll  believe  old  Higginbotham  is  unhanged,  till  I  see 


164   MR.  HIGGINBOTHAM'S    CATASTROPHE. 

him  with  my  own  eyes,  and  hear  it  from  his  own 
mouth  !  And  as  he's  a  real  shaver,  I'll  have  the  min 
ister,  or  some  other  responsible  man,  for  an  endorser.' 

It  was  growing  dusk  when  he  reached  the  toll-house 
on  Kimballton  turnpike,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from 
the  village  of  this  name.  His  little  mare  was  fast 
bringing  him  up  with  a  man  on  horseback,  who  trotted 
through  the  gate  a  few  rods  in  advance  of  him,  nodded 
to  the  toll-gatherer,  and  kept  on  towards  the  village. 
Dominicus  was  acquainted  with  the  toll-man,  and 
while  making  change,  the  usual  remarks  on  the  weather 
passed  between  them. 

'  I  suppose,  said  the  pedler,  throwing  back  his  whip 
lash,  to  bring  it  down  like  a  feather  on  the  mare's 
flank,  4  you  have  not  seen  anything  of  old  Mr.  Higgin- 
botham  within  a  day  or  two  ?' 

'  Yes,'  answered  the  toll-gatherer.  *  He  passed  the 
gate  just  before  you  drove  up,  and  yonder  he  rides 
now,  if  you  can  see  him  through  the  dusk.  He's  been 
to  Woodfield  this  afternoon,  attending  a  sheriffs  sale 
there.  The  old  man  generally  shakes  hands  and  has 
a  little  chat  with  me  ;  but  to-night,  he  nodded, — as  if 
to  say,  '  charge  my  toll,' — and  jogged  on  ;  for  wherever 
he  goes,  he  must  always  be  at  home  by  eight  o'clock.' 

'  So  they  tell  me,'  said  Dominicus. 

'  I  never  saw  a  man  look  so  yellow  and  thin  as  the 
squire  does,'  continued  the  toll-gatherer.  '  Says  I  to 
myself,  to-night,  he's  more  like  a  ghost  or  an  old 
mummy  than  good  flesh  and  blood.' 


MR.    HIGGINBOTHAM'S    CATASTROPHE.   165 

The  pedler  strained  his  eyes  through  the  twilight, 
and  could  just  discern  the  horseman  now  far  ahead  on 
the  village  road.  He  seemed  to  recognise  the  rear  of 
Mr.  Higginbotham ;  but  through  the  evening  shadows, 
and  amid  the  dust  from  the  horse's  feet,  the  figure 
appeared  dim  and  unsubstantial ;  as  if  the  shape  of  the 
mysterious  old  man  were  faintly  moulded  of  darkness 
and  gray  light.  Dominicus  shivered. 

'  Mr.  Higginbotham  has  come  back  from  the  other 
world,  by  way  of  the  Kimballton  turnpike,'  thought  he. 

He  shook  the  reins  and  rode  forward,  keeping  about 
the  same  distance  in  the  rear  of  the  gray  old  shadow, 
till  the  latter  was  concealed  by  a  bend  of  the  road. 
On  reaching  this  point  the  pedler  no  longer  saw  the 
man  on  horseback,  but  found  himself  at  the  head  of 
the  village  street,  not  far  from  a  number  of  stores  and 
two  taverns,  clustered  round  the  meeting-house  steeple. 
On  his  left  was  a  stone  wall  and  a  gate,  the  boun 
dary  of  a  wood-Jot,  beyond  which  lay  an  orchard, 
further  still,  a  mowing-field,  and  last  of  all,  a  house. 
These  were  the  premises  of  Mr.  Higginbotham,  whose 
dwelling  stood  beside  the  old  highway,  but  had  been 
left  in  the  back  ground  by  the  Kimballton  turnpike. 
Dominicus  knew  the  place  ;  and  the  little  mare  stopped 
short  by  instinct ;  for  he  was  not  conscious  of  tight 
ening  the  reins. 

'  For   the  soul  of  me,  I  cannot  get  by  this  gate  !' 
said  he,  trembling,     1 1  never  shall  be  my  own  man 
o 


166  MR.    HIGGINBOTHAM'S    CATASTROPHE. 

again,  till  I  see  whether  Mr.  Higginbotham  is  hanging 
on  the  St.  Michael's  pear-tree  !' 

He  leaped  from  the  cart,  gave  the  rein  a  turn  round 
the  gate-post,  and  ran  along  the  green  path  of  the 
wood-lot,  as  if  Old  Nick  were  chasing  behind.  Just 
then  the  village  clock  tolled  eight,  and  as  each  deep 
stroke  fell,  Dominicus  gave  a  fresh  bound  and  flew 
faster  than  before,  till,  dim  in  the  solitary  centre  of  the 
orchard,  he  saw  the  fated  pear-tree.  One  great  branch 
stretched  from  the  old  contorted  trunk  across  the  path, 
and  threw  the  darkest  shadow  on  that  one  spot.  But 
something  seemed  to  struggle  beneath  the  branch  ! 

The  pedler  had  never  pretended  to  more  courage 
than  befits  a  man  of  peaceable  occupation,  nor  could 
he  account  for  his  valor  on  this  awful  emergency. 
Certain  it  is,  however,  that  he  rushed  forward,  pros 
trated  a  sturdy  Irishman  with  the  but-end  of  his  whip, 

and  found not  indeed  hanging  on  the  St. 

Michael's  pear-tree,  but  trembling  beneath  it,  with  a 
halter  round  his  neck — the  old  identical  Mr.  Higgin 
botham  ! 

'  Mr.  Higginbotham,'  said  Dominicus  tremulously, 
*  you're  an  honest  man,  and  I'll  take  your  word  for  it. 
Have  you  been  hanged,  or  not  ?' 

If  the  riddle  be  not  already  guessed,  a  few  words 
will  explain  the  simple  machinery,  by  which  this 
'  coming  event'  was  made  to  '  cast  its  shadow  before.' 
Three  men  had  plotted  the  robbery  and  murder  of  Mr. 


MR.    HIGGINBOTHAM'S    CATASTROPHE.  167 

Higginbotham ;  two  of  them,  successively,  lost  courage 
and  fled,  each  delaying  the  crime  one  night,  by  their 
disappearance ;  the  third  was  in  the  act  of  perpetra 
tion,  when  a  champion,  blindly  obeying  the  call  of 
fate,  like  the  heroes  of  old  romance,  appeared  in  the 
person  of  Dominicus  Pike. 

It  only  remains  to  say,  that  Mr.  Higginbotham  took 
the  pedler  into  high  favor,  sanctioned  his  addresses  to 
the  pretty  schoolmistress,  and  settled  his  whole  prop 
erty  on  their  children,  allowing  themselves  the  interest. 
In  due  time,  the  old  gentleman  capped  the  climax  of 
his  favors,  by  dying  a  Christian  death,  in  bed,  since 
which  melancholy  event,  Dominicus  Pike  has  removed 
from  Kimballton,  and  established  a  large  tobacco  man 
ufactory  in  my  native  village. 


LITTLE    ANNIE'S     RAMBLE 


LITTLE     ANNIE'S     RAMBLE. 


DING-DONG  !  Ding-dong  !  Ding-dong ! 

The  town-crier  has  rung  his  bell,  at  a  distant  corner, 
and  little  Annie  stands  on  her  father's  door-steps, 
trying  to  hear  what  the  man  with  the  loud  voice  is 
talking  about.  Let  me  listen  too.  Oh  !  he  is  telling 
the  people  that  an  elephant,  and  a  lion,  and  a  royal 
tiger,  and  a  horse  with  horns,  and  other  strange  beasts 
from  foreign  countries,  have  come  to  town,  and  will 
receive  all  visiters  who  choose  to  wait  upon  them. 
Perhaps  little  Annie  would  like  to  go.  Yes ;  and  I 
can  see  that  the  pretty  child  is  weary  of  this  wide  and 
pleasant  street,  with  the  green  trees  flinging  their  shade 
across  the  quiet  sunshine,  and  the  pavements  and  the 
sidewalks  all  as  clean  as  if  the  housemaid  had  just 
swept  them  with  her  broom.  She  feels  that  impulse 
to  go  strolling  away — that  longing  after  the  mystery 
of  the  great  world — which  many  children  feel,  and 
which  I  felt  in  my  childhood.  Little  Annie  shall  take 


172  LITTLE    ANNIE'S    RAMBLE. 

a  ramble  with  me.  See  !  I  do  but  hold  out  my  hand, 
and,  like  some  bright  bird  in  the  sunny  air,  with  her 
blue  silk  frock  fluttering  upwards  from  her  white 
pantalets,  she  comes  bounding  on  tiptoe  across  the 
street. 

Smooth  back  your  brown  curls,  Annie  ;  and  let  me 
tie  on  your  bonnet,  and  we  will  set  forth  !  What  a 
strange  couple  to  go  on  their  rambles  together  !  One 
walks  in  black  attire,  with  a  measured  step,  and  a 
heavy  brow,  and  his  thoughtful  eyes  bent  down,  while 
the  gay  little  girl  trips  lightly  along,  as  if  she  were 
forced  to  keep  hold  of  my  hand,  lest  her  feet  should 
dance  away  from  the  earth.  Yet  there  is  sympathy 
between  us.  If  I  pride  myself  on  anything,  it  is 
because  I  have  a  smile  that  children  love ;  and,  on 
the  other  hand,  there  are  few  grown  ladies  that  could 
entice  me  from  the  side  of  little  Annie  ;  for  I  delight 
to  let  my  mind  go  hand  in  hand  with  the  mind  of  a 
sinless  child.  So,  come,  Annie ;  but  if  I  moralize  as 
we  go,  do  not  listen  to  me ;  only  look  about  you,  and 
be  merry ! 

Now  we  turn  the  corner.  .Here  are  hacks  with  two 
horses,  and  stage-coaches  with  four,  thundering  to 
meet  each  other,  and  trucks  and  carts  moving  at  a 
slower  pace,  being  heavily  laden  with  barrels  from  the 
wharves,  and  here  are  rattling  gigs,  which  perhaps  will 
be  smashed  to  pieces  before  our  eyes.  Hither  ward, 
also,  comes  a  man  trundling  a  wheelbarrow  along  the 
pavement.  Is  not  little  Annie  afraid  of  such  a  tumult  ? 


LITTLE    ANNIE'S    RAMBLE.  173 

No ;  she  does  not  even  shrink  closer  to  my  side,  but 
passes  on  with  fearless  confidence,  a  happy  child 
amidst  a  great  throng  of  grown  people,  who  pay  the 
same  reverence  to  her  infancy,  that  they  would  to 
extreme  old  age.  Nobody  jostles  her ;  all  turn  aside 
to  make  way  for  little  Annie  ;  and  what  is  most  sin 
gular,  she  appears  conscious  of  her  claim  to  such 
respect.  Now  her  eyes  brighten  with  pleasure !  A 
street  musician  has  seated  himself  on  the  steps  of 
yonder  church,  and  pours  forth  his  strains  to  the  busy 
town,  a  melody  that  has  gone  astray  among  the  tramp 
of  footsteps,  the  buzz  of  voices,  and  the  war  of  passing 
wheels.  Who  heeds  the  poor  organ-grinder  ?  None 
but  myself  and  little  Annie,  whose  feet  begin  to  move 
in  unison  with  the  lively  tune,  as  if  she  were  loth  that 
music  should  be  wasted  without  a  dance.  But  where 
would  Annie  find  a  partner  ?  Some  have  the  gout  in 
their  toes,  or  the  rheumatism  in  their  joints  ;  some  are 
stiff  with  age  ;  some  feeble  with  disease  ;  some  are  so 
lean  that  their  bones  would  rattle,  and  others  of  such 
ponderous  size  that  their  agility  would  crack  the  flag 
stones  ;  but  many,  many  have  leaden  feet,  because 
their  hearts  are  far  heavier  than  lead.  It  is  a  sad 
thought  that  I  have  chanced  upon.  What  a  company 
of  dancers  should  we  be  !  For  I,  too,  am  a  gentleman 
of  sober  footsteps,  and  therefore,  little  Annie,  let  us 
walk  sedately  on. 

It  is  a  question  with  me,  whether  this  giddy  child, 
or  my  sage  self,  have  most  pleasure  in  looking  at  the 


&• 

174  LITTLE    ANNIE'S    RAMBLE. 


shop-windows.  We  love  the  silks  of  sunny  hue,  that 
glow  within  the  darkened  premises  of  the  spruce  dry- 
goods  men  ;  we  are  pleasantly  dazzled  by  the  bur 
nished  silver,  and  the  chased  gold,  the  rings  of  wedlock 
and  the  costly  love-ornaments,  glistening  at  the  window 
of  the  jeweller  ;  but  Annie,  more  than  I,  seeks  for  a 
glimpse  of  her  passing  figure  in  the  dusty  looking- 
glasses  at  the  hardware  stores.  All  that  is  bright  and 
gay  attracts  us  both. 

Here  is  a  shop  to  which  the  recollections  of  my 
boyhood,  as  well  as  present  partialities,  give  a  peculiar 
magic.  How  delightful  to  let  the  fancy  revel  on  the 
dainties  of  a  confectioner ;  those  pies,  with  such  white 
and  flaky  paste,  their  contents  being  a  mystery,  whether 
rich  mince,  with  whole  plums  intermixed,  or  piquant 
apple,  delicately  rose-flavored;  those  cakes,  heart- 
shaped  or  round,  piled  in  a  lofty  pyramid  ;  those  sweet 
little  circlets,  sweetly  named  kisses ;  those  dark  ma 
jestic  masses,  fit  to  be  bridal  loaves  at  the  wedding  of 
an  heiress,  mountains  in  size,  their  summits  deeply 
snow-covered  with  sugar  !  Then  the  mighty  treasures 
of  sugarplums,  white,  and  crimson,  and  yellow,  in 
large  glass  vases;  and  candy  of  all  varieties;  and 
those  little  cockles,  or  whatever  they  are  called,  much 
prized  by  children  for  their  sweetness,  and  more  for 
the  mottos  which  they  enclose,  by  love-sick  maids 
and  bachelors !  Oh  !  my  mouth  waters,  little  Annie, 
and  so  doth  yours ;  but  we  will  not  be  tempted,  except 
to  an  imaginary  feast ;  so  let  us  hasten  onward,  de 
vouring  the  vision  of  a  plum  cake. 


LITTLE    ANNIE'S    RAMBLE.  175 

Here  are  pleasures,  as  some  people  would  say,  of  a 
more  exalted  kind,  in  the  window  of  a  bookseller.  Is 
Annie  a  literary  lady?  Yes;  she  is  deeply  read  in 
Peter  Parley's  tomes,  and  has  an  increasing  love  for 
fairy  tales,  though  seldom  met  with  now-a-days,  and 
she  will  subscribe,  next  year,  to  the  Juvenile  Miscel 
lany.  But,  truth  to  tell,  she  is  apt  to  turn  away  from 
the  printed  page,  and  keep  gazing  at  the  pretty  pictures, 
such  as  the  gay-colored  ones  which  make  this  shop- 
window  the  continual  loitering  place  of  children. 
What  would  Annie  think,  if,  in  the  book  which  I 
mean  to  send  her,  on  New  Year's  day,  she  should  find 
her  sweet  little  self,  bound  up  in  silk  or  morocco  with 
gilt  edges,  there  to  remain  till  she  become  a  woman 
grown,  with  children  of  her  own  to  read  about  their 
mother's  childhood  !  That  would  be  very  queer. 

Little  Annie  is  weary  of  pictures,  and  pulls  me 
onward  by  the  hand,  till  suddenly  we  pause  at  the 
most  wondrous  shop  in  all  the  town.  Oh,  my  stars ! 
Is  this  a  toyshop,  or  is  it  fairy  land?  For  here  are 
gilded  chariots,  in  which  the  king  and  queen  of  the 
fairies  might  ride  side  by  side,  while  their  courtiers, 
on  these  small  horses,  should  gallop  in  triumphal  pro 
cession  before  and  behind  the  royal  pair.  Here,  too, 
are  dishes  of  china  ware,  fit  to  be  the  dining  set  of 
those  same  princely  personages,  when  they  make  a 
regal  banquet  in  the  stateliest  hall  of  their  palace, 
full  five  feet  high,  and  behold  their  nobles  feasting 
adown  the  long  perspective  of  the  table.  Betwixt  the 


176  LITTLE    ANNIE'S    RAMBLE. 

king  and  queen  should  sit  my  little  Annie,  the  pret 
tiest  fairy  of  them  all.  Here  stands  a  turbaned  Turk, 
threatening  us  with  his  sabre,  like  an  ugly  heathen  as 
he  is.  And  next  a  Chinese  mandarine,  who  nods  his 
head  at  Annie  and  myself.  Here  we  may  review  a 
whole  army  of  horse  and  foot,  in  red  and  blue  uniforms, 
with  drums,  fifes,  trumpets  and  all  kinds  of  noiseless 
music ;  they  have  halted  on  the  shelf  of  this  window, 
after  their  weary  march  from  Lilliput.  But  what  cares 
Annie  for  soldiers?  No  conquering  queen  is  she, 
neither  a  Semiramis  nor  a  Catharine  ;  her  whole  heart 
is  set  upon  that  doll,  who  gazes  at  us  with  such  a 
fashionable  stare.  This  is  the  little  girl's  true  play 
thing.  Though  made  of  wood,  a  doll  is  a  visionary 
and  ethereal  personage,  endowed  by  childish  fancy 
with  a  peculiar  life;  the  mimic  lady  is  a  heroine  of 
romance,  an  actor  and  a  sufferer  in  a  thousand 
shadowy  scenes,  the  chief  inhabitant  of  that  wild  world 
with  which  children  ape  the  real  one.  Little  Annie 
does  not  understand  what  I  am  saying,  but  looks  wish 
fully  at  the  proud  lady  in  the  window.  We  will  invite 
her  home  with  us  as  we  return.  Meantime,  good-by, 
Dame  Doll !  A  toy  yourself,  you  look  forth  from  your 
window  upon  many  ladies  that  are  also  toys,  though 
they  walk  and  speak,  and  upon  a  crowd  in  pursuit  of 
toys,  though  they  wear  grave  visages.  Oh,  with  your 
never-closing  eyes,  had  you  but  an  intellect  to  moralize 
on  all  that  flits  before  them,  what  a  wise  doll  would 
you  be  !  Come,  little  Annie,  we  shall  find  toys  enough, 
go  where  we  may. 


LITTLE    ANNIE'S    RAMBLE.  177 

Now  we  elbow  our  way  among  the  throng  again. 
It  is  curious,  in  the  most  crowded  part  of  a  town,  to 
meet  with  living  creatures  that  had  their  birth-place  in 
some  far  solitude,  but  have  acquired  a  second  nature 
in  the  wilderness  of  men.  Look  up,  Annie,  at  that 
canary  bird,  hanging  out  of  the  window  in  his  cage. 
Poor  little  fellow !  His  golden  feathers  are  all  tar 
nished  in  this  smoky  sunshine  ;  he  would  have  glistened 
twice  as  brightly  among  the  summer  islands ;  but  still 
he  has  become  a  citizen  in  all  his  tastes  and  habits, 
and  would  not  sing  half  so  well  without  the  uproar 
that  drowns  his  music.  What  a  pity  that  he  does  not 
know  how  miserable  he  is  !  There  is  a  parrot,  too, 
calling  out,  '  Pretty  Poll !  Pretty  Poll !'  as  we  pass 
by.  Foolish  bird,  to  be  talking  about  her  prettiness 
to  strangers  ;  especially  as  she  is  not  a  pretty  Poll, 
though  gaudily  dressed  in  green  and  yellow.  If  she 
had  said  '  pretty  Annie,'  there  would  have  been  some 
sense  in  it.  See  that  gray  squirrel,  at  the  door  of  the 
fruit-shop,  whirling  round  and  round  so  merrily  within 
his  wire  wheel !  Being  condemned  to  the  treadmill, 
he  makes  it  an  amusement.  Admirable  philosophy ! 

Here  comes  a  big,  rough  dog,  a  countryman's  dog 
in  search  of  his  master  ;  smelling  at  every  body's  heels, 
and  touching  little  Annie's  hand  with  his  cold  nose, 
but  hurrying  away,  though  she  would  fain  have  patted 
him.  Success  to  your  search,  Fidelity  !  And  there 
sits  a  great  yellow  cat  upon  a  window-sill,  a  very  cor 
pulent  and  comfortable  cat,  gazing  at  this  transitory 


178  LITTLE    ANNIE'S    RAMBLE. 

world,  with  owl's  eyes,  and  making  pithy  comments, 
doubtless,  or  what  appear  such,  to  the  silly  beast.  Oh, 
sage  puss,  make  room  for  me  beside  you,  and  we  will 
be  a  pair  of  philosophers  ! 

Here  we  see  something  to  remind  us  of  the  town-crier, 
and  his  ding-dong-bell !  Look !  look  at  that  great 
cloth  spread  out  in  the  air,  pictured  all  over  with  wild 
beasts,  as  if  they  had  met  together  to  choose  a  king, 
according  to  their  custom  in  the  days  of  ^Esop.  But 
they  are  choosing  neither  a  king  nor  a  President ;  else 
we  should  hear  a  most  horrible  snarling  !  They  have 
come  from  the  deep  woods,  and  the  wild  mountains, 
and  the  desert  sands,  and  the  polar  snows,  only  to  do 
homage  to  my  little  Annie.  As  we  enter  among  them, 
the  great  elephant  makes  us  a  bow,  in  the  best  style  of 
elephantine  courtesy,  bending  lowly  down  his  mountain 
bulk,  with  trunk  abased  and  leg  thrust  out  behind. 
Annie  returns  the  salute,  much  to  the  gratification  of 
the  elephant,  who  is  certainly  the  best  bred  monster 
in  the  caravan.  The  lion  and  the  lioness  are  busy 
with  two  beef  bones.  The  royal  tiger,  the  beautiful, 
the  untamable,  keeps  pacing  his  narrow  cage  with  a 
haughty  step,  unmindful  of  the  spectators,  or  recalling 
the  fierce  deeds  of  his  former  life,  when  he  was  wont 
to  leap  forth  upon  such  inferior  animals,  from  the 
jungles  of  Bengal. 

Here  we  see  the  very  same  wolf — do  not  go  near 
him,  Annie  ! — the  self-same  wolf  that  devoured  little 
Red  Riding  Hood  and  her  grandmother.  In  the  next 


LITTLE    ANNIE'S    RAMBLE.  179 

cage,  a  hyena  from  Egypt,  who  has  doubtless  howled 
around  the  pyramids,  and  a  black  bear  from  our  own 
forests,  are  fellow  prisoners,  and  most  excellent  friends. 
Are  there  any  two  living  creatures,  who  have  so  few 
sympathies  that  they  cannot  possibly  be  friends  ?  Here 
sits  a  great  white  bear,  whom  common  observers  would 
call  a  very  stupid  beast,  though  I  perceive  him  to  be 
only  absorbed  in  contemplation;  he  is  thinking  of  his 
voyages  on  an  iceberg,  and  of  his  comfortable  home 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  north  pole,  and  of  the  little  cubs 
whom  he  left  rolling  in  the  eternal  snows.  In  fact,  he 
is  a  bear  of  sentiment.  But,  oh,  those  unsentimental 
monkeys !  the  ugly,  grinning,  aping,  chattering,  ill- 
natured,  mischievous  and  queer  little  brutes.  Annie 
does  not  love  the  monkeys.  Their  ugliness  shocks 
her  pure,  instinctive  delicacy  of  taste,  and  makes  her 
mind  unquiet,  because  it  bears  a  wild  and  dark  resem 
blance  to  humanity.  But  here  is  a  little  pony,  just  big 
enough  for  Annie  to  ride,  and  round  and  round  he 
gallops  in  a  circle,  keeping  time  with  his  trampling 
hoofs  to  a  band  of  music.  And  here — with  a  laced 
coat  and  a  cocked  hat,  and  a  riding  whip  in  his  hand, 
here  comes  a  little  gentleman,  small  enough  to  be 
king  of  the  fairies,  and  ugly  enough  to  be  king  of  the 
gnomes,  and  takes  a  flying  leap  into  the  saddle.  Mer 
rily,  merrily,  plays  the  music,  and  merrily  gallops  the 
pony,  and  merrily  rides  the  little  old  gentleman.  Come, 
Annie,  into  the  street  again  ;  perchance  we  may  see 
monkeys  on  horseback  there  ! 


LITTLE 


Mercy  on  us,  what  a  noisy  world  we  quiet  people 
live  in  !  Did  Annie  ever  read  the  cries  of  London 
city  1  With  what  lusty  lungs  doth  yonder  man  pro 
claim  that  his  wheelbarrow  is  full  of  lobsters  !  Here 
comes  another  mounted  on  a  cart,  and  blowing  a 
hoarse  and  dreadful  blast  from  a  tin  horn,  as  much  as 
to  say  '  fresh  fish  !'  And  hark  !  a  voice  on  high,  like 
that  of  a  muezzin  from  the  summit  of  a  mosque,  an 
nouncing  that  some  chimney  sweeper  has  emerged 
from  smoke  and  soot,  and  darksome  caverns,  into  the 
upper  air.  What  cares  the  world  for  that  ?  But, 
well-a-day,  we  hear  a  shrill  voice  of  affliction,  the 
scream  of  a  little  child,  rising  louder  with  every  repe 
tition  of  that  smart,  sharp,  slapping  sound,  produced 
by  an  open  hand  on  tender  flesh.  Annie  sympathizes, 
though  without  experience  of  such  direful  woe.  Lo  ! 
the  town-crier  again,  with  some  new  secret  for  the 
public  ear.  Will  he  tell  us  of  an  auction,  or  of  a  lost 
pocketbook,  or  a  show  of  beautiful  wax  figures,  or  of 
some  monstrous  beast  more  horrible  than  any  in  the 
caravan  ?  I  guess  the  latter.  See  how  he  uplifts  the 
bell  in  his  right  hand,  and  shakes  it  slowly  at  first, 
then  with  a  hurried  motion,  till  the  clapper  seems  to 
strike  both  sides  at  once,  and  the  sounds  are  scattered 
forth  in  quick  succession,  far  and  near. 

Ding-dong  !     Ding-dong  !     Ding-dong  ! 

Now  he  raises  his  clear,  loud  voice,  above  all  the 
din  of  the  town  ;  it  drowns  the  buzzing  talk  of  many 
tongues,  and  draws  each  man's  mind  from  his  own 


LITTLE    ANNIE'S    RAMBLE.  181 

business ;  it  rolls  up  and  down  the  echoing  street,  and 
ascends  to  the  hushed  chamber  of  the  sick,  and  pene 
trates  downward  to  the  cellar  kitchen,  where  the  hot 
cook  turns  from  the  fire  to  listen.  Who,  of  all  that 
address  the  public  ear,  whether  in  church,  or  court 
house,  or  hall  of  state,  has  such  an  attentive  audience 
as  the  town-crier  !  What  saith  the  people's  orator  1 

'  Strayed  from  her  home,  a  LITTLE  GIRL,  of  five 
years  old,  in  a  blue  silk  frock  and  white  pantalets, 
with  brown  curling  hair  arid  hazel  eyes.  Whoever 
will  bring  her  back  to  her  afflicted  mother — ' 

Stop,  stop,  town-crier  !  The  lost  is  found.  Oh, 
my  pretty  Annie,  we  forgot  to  tell  your  mother  of  our 
ramble,  and  she  is  in  despair,  and  has  sent  the  town- 
crier  to  bellow  up  and  down  the  streets;  affrighting 
old  and  young,  for  the  loss  of  a  little  girl  who  has  not 
once  let  go  my  hand?  Well,  let  us  hasten  homeward; 
and  as  we  go,  forget  not  to  thank  heaven,  my  Annie, 
that  after  wandering  a  little  way  into  the  world,  you 
may  return  at  the  first  summons,  with  an  untainted 
and  unwearied  heart,  and  be  a  happy  child  again.  But 
I  have  gone  too  far  astray  for  the  town-crier  to  call 
me  back  ! 

Sweet  has  been  the  charm  of  childhood  on  my 
spirit,  throughout  my  ramble  with  little  Annie !  Say 
not  that  it  has  been  a  waste  of  precious  moments,  an 
idle  matter,  a  babble  of  childish  talk,  and  a  reverie  of 
childish  imaginations,  about  topics  unworthy  of  a 
grown  man's  notice.  Has  it  been  merely  this  ?  Not 
P* 


so ;  not  so.  They  are  not  truly  wise  who  would  affirm 
it.  As  the  pure  breath  of  children  revives  the  life  of 
aged  men,  so  is  our  moral  nature  revived  by  their  free 
and  simple  thoughts,  their  native  feeling,  their  airy 
mirth,  for  little  cause  or  none,  their  grief,  soon  roused 
and  soon  allayed.  Their  influence  on  us  is  at  least 
reciprocal  with  ours  on  them.  When  our  infancy  is 
almost  forgotten,  and  our  boyhood  long  departed, 
though  it  seems  but  as  yesterday  ;  when  life  settles 
darkly  down  upon  us,  and  we  doubt  whether  to  call 
ourselves  young  any  more  ;  then  it  is  good  to  steal 
away  from  the  society  of  bearded  men,  and  even  of 
gentler  woman,  and  spend  an  hour  or  two  with  chil 
dren.  -After  drinking  from  those  fountains  of  still 
fresh  existence,  we  shall  return  into  the  crowd,  as  I  do 
now,  to  struggle  onward  and  do  our  part  in  life,  per 
haps  as  fervently  as  ever,  but,  for  a  time,  with  a  kinder 
and  purer  heart,  and  a  spirit  more  lightly  wise.  All 
this  by  thy  sweet  magic,  dear  little  Annie ! 


WAKEFIELD 


W A KEF I ELD 


IN  some  old  magazine  or  newspaper,  I  recollect  a 
story,  told  as  truth,  of  a  man — let  us  call  him  Wake- 
field — who  absented  himself  for  a  long  time  from  his 
wife.  The  fact,  thus  abstractedly  stated,  is  not  very 
uncommon,  nor — without  a  proper  distinction  of  cir 
cumstances — to  be  condemned  either  as  naughty  or 
nonsensical.  Howbeit,  this,  though  far  from  the  most 
aggravated,  is  perhaps  the  strangest  instance,  on  record, 
of  marital  delinquency ;  and,  moreover,  as  remarkable 
a  freak  as  may  be  found  in  the  whole  list  of  human 
oddities.  The  wedded  couple  lived  in  London.  The 
man,  under  pretence  of  going  a  journey,  took  lodg 
ings  in  the  next  street  to  his  own  house,  and  there, 
unheard  of  by  his  wife  or  friends,  and  without  the 
shadow  of  a  reason  for  such  self-banishment,  dwelt 
upwards  of  twenty  years.  During  that  period,  he 
beheld  his  home  every  day,  and  frequently  the  forlorn 
Mrs,  Wakefield.  And  after  so  great  a  gap  in  his 


186  WAKEFIELD. 

matrimonial  felicity — when  his  death  was  reckoned 
certain,  his  estate  settled,  his  name  dismissed  from 
memory,  and  his  wife,  long,  'long  ago,  resigned  to  her 
autumnal  widowhood — he  entered  the  door  one  even 
ing,  quietly,  as  from  a  day's  absence,  and  became  a 
loving  spouse  till  death. 

This  outline  is  all  that  I  remember.  But  the  in 
cident,  though  of  the  purest  originality,  unexampled, 
and  probably  never  to  be  repeated,  is  one,  I  think, 
which  appeals  to  the  general  sympathies  of  mankind. 
We  know,  each  for  himself,  that  none  of  us  would 
perpetrate  such  a  folly,  yet  feel  as  if  some  other  might. 
To  my  own  contemplations,  at  least,  it  has  often 
recurred,  always  exciting  wonder,  but  with  a  sense  that 
the  story  must  be  true,  and  a  conception  of  its  hero's 
character.  Whenever  any  subject  so  forcibly  affects 
the  mind,  time  is  well  spent  in  thinking  of  it.  If  the 
reader  choose,  let  him  do  his  own  meditation  ;  or  if  he 
prefer  to  ramble  with  me  through  the  twenty  years  of 
Wakefield's  vagary,  I  bid  him  welcome ;  trusting  that 
there  will  be  a  pervading  spirit  arid  a  moral,  even 
should  we  fail  to  find  them,  done  up  neatly,  and  con 
densed  into  the  final  sentence.  Thought  has  always 
its  efficacy,  and  every  striking  incident  its  moral. 

What  sort  of  a  man  was  Wakefield  ?  We  are  free 
to  shape  out  our  own  idea,  and  call  it  by  his  name. 
He  was  now  in  the  meridian  of  life  ;  his  matrimonial 
affections,  never  violent,  were  sobered  into  a  calm, 
habitual  sentiment ;  of  all  husbands,  he  was  likely  to 


WAKEFIELD.  187 

be  the  most  constant,  because  a  certain  sluggishness 
would  keep  his  heart  at  rest,  wherever  it  might  be 
placed.  He  was  intellectual,  but  not  actively  so  ;  his 
mind  occupied  itself  in  long  and  lazy  musings,  that 
tended  to  no  purpose,  or  had  not  vigor,  to  attain  it ; 
his  thoughts  were  seldom  so  energetic  as  to  seize  hold 
of  words.  Imagination,  in  the  proper  meaning  of  the 
term,  made  no  part  of  Wakefield's  gifts.  With  a  cold, 
but  not  depraved  nor  wandering  heart,  and  a  mind 
never  feverish  with  riotous  thoughts,  nor  perplexed 
with  originality,  who  could  have  anticipated,  that  our 
friend  would  entitle  himself  to  a  foremost  place  among 
the  doers  of  eccentric  deeds  ?  Had  his  acquaintances 
been  asked,  who  was  the  man  in  London,  the  surest 
to  perform  nothing  today  which  should  be  remember 
ed  on  the  morrow,  they  would  have  thought  of  Wake- 
field.  Only  the  wife  of  his  bosom  might  have  hesita 
ted.  She,  without  having  analyzed  his  character,  was 
partly  aware  of  a  quiet  selfishness,  that  had  rusted  into 
his  inactive  mind — of  a  peculiar  sort  of  vanity,  the 
most  uneasy  attribute  about  him — of  a  disposition  to 
craft,  which  had  seldom  produced  more  positive  effects 
than  the  keeping  of  petty  secrets,  hardly  worth  reveal 
ing — and,  lastly,  of  what  she  called  a  little  strangeness, 
sometimes,  in  the  good  man.  This  latter  quality  is 
indefinable,  and  perhaps  non-existent. 

Let  us  now  imagine  Wakefield  bidding  adieu  to  his 
wife.  It  is  the  dusk  of  an  October  evening.  His 
equipment  is  a  drab  greatcoat,  a  hat  covered  with  an 


188  WAKEFIELD. 

oilcloth,  top-boots,  an  umbrella  in  one  hand  and  a 
small  portmanteau  in  the  other.  He  has  informed 
Mrs.  Wakefield  that  he  is  to  take  the  night-coach  into 
the  country.  She  would  fain  inquire  the  length  of  his 
journey,  its  object,  and  the  probable  time  of  his  return ; 
but,  indulgent  to  his  harmless  love  of  mystery,  interro 
gates  him  only  by  a  look.  He  tells  her  not  to  expect 
him  positively  by  the  return  coach,  nor  to  be  alarmed 
should  he  tarry  three  or  four  days ;  but,  at  all  events, 
to  look  for  him  at  supper  on  Friday  evening.  Wake- 
field  himself,  be  it  considered,  has  no  suspicion  of  what 
is  before  him.  He  holds  out  his  hand  ;  she  gives  her 
own,  and  meets  his  parting  kiss,  in  the  matter-of-course 
way  of  a  ten  years'  matrimony ;  and  forth  goes  the 
middle-aged  Mr.  Wakefield,  almost  resolyed  to  perplex 
his  good  lady  by  a  whole  week's  absence.  After  the 
door  has  closed  behind  him,  she  perceives  it  thrust 
partly  open,  and  a  vision  of  her  husband's  face,  through 
the  aperture,  smiling  on  her,  and  gone  in  a  moment. 
For  the  time,  this  little  incident  is  dismissed  without 
a  thought.  But,  long  afterwards,  when  she  has  been 
more  years  a  widow  than  a  wife,  that  smile  recurs, 
and  flickers  across  all  her  reminiscences  of  Wake- 
field's  visage.  In  her  many  musings,  she  surrounds 
the  original  smile  with  a  multitude  of  fantasies,  which 
make  it  strange  and  awful ;  as,  for  instance,  if  she 
imagines  him  in  a  coffin,  that  parting  look  is  frozen 
on  his  pale  features  ;  or,  if  she  dreams  of  him  in 
Heaven,  still  his  blessed  spirit  wears  a  quiet  and  crafty 


WAKEFIELD.  189 

smile.  Yet,  for  its  sake,  when  all  others  have  given 
him  up  for  dead,  she  sometimes  doubts  whether  she  is 
a  widow. 

But,  our  business  is  with  the  husband.  We  must 
hurry  after  him,  along  the  street,  ere  he  lose  his  in 
dividuality,  and  melt  into  the  great  mass  of  London 
life.  It  would  be  vain  searching  for  him  there.  Let 
us  follow  close  at  his  heels,  therefore,  until,  after 
several  superfluous  turns  and  doublings,  we  find  him 
comfortably  established  by  the  fireside  of  a  small  apart 
ment,  previously  bespoken.  He  is  in  the  next  street 
to  his  own,  and  at  his  journey's  end.  He  can  scarcely 
trust  his  good  fortune,  in  having  got  thither  unper- 
eeived — recollecting  that,  at  one  time,  he  was  delayed 
by  the  throng,  in  the  very  focus  of  a  lighted  lantern  ; 
and,  again,  there  were  footsteps,  that  seemed  to  tread 
behind  his  own,  distinct  from  the  multitudinous  tramp 
around  him ;  and,  anon,  he  heard  a  voice  shouting 
afar,  and  fancied  that  it  called  his  name.  Doubtless, 
a  dozen  busybodies  had  been  watching  him,  and  told 
his  wife  the  whole  affair.  Poor  Wakefield  !  Little 
knowest  thou  thine  own  insignificance  in  this  great 
world  !  No  mortal  eye  but  mine  has  traced  thee.  Go 
quietly  to  thy  bed,  foolish  man ;  and,  on  the  morrow, 
if  thou  wilt  be  wise,  get  thee  home  to  good  Mrs. 
Wakefield,  and  tell  her  the  truth.  Remove  not  thyself, 
even  for  a  little  week,  from  thy  place  in  her  chaste 
bosom.  Were  she,  for  a  single  moment,  to  deem  thee 
dead,  or  lost,  or  lastingly  divided  from  her,  thou 
Q 


190  WAKEFIELD. 

wouldst  be  wofully  conscious  of  a  change  in  thy  true 
wife,  for  ever  after.  It  is  perilous  to  make  a  chasm  in 
human  affections;  not  that  they  gape  so  long  and 
wide — but  so  quickly  close  again ! 

Almost  repenting  of  his  frolic,  or  whatever  it  may 
be  termed,  Wakefield  lies  down  betimes,  and  starting 
from  his  first  nap,  spreads  forth  his  arms  into  the  wide 
and  solitary  waste  of  the  unaccustomed  bed.  *  No' — 
thinks  he,  gathering  the  bed-clothes  about  him — '  I 
will  not  sleep  alone  another  night.' 

In  the  morning,  he  rises  earlier  than  usual,  and  sets 
himself  to  consider  what  he  really  means  to  do.  Such 
are  his  loose  and  rambling  modes  of  thought,  that  he 
has  taken  this  very  singular  step,  with  the  conscious 
ness  of  a  purpose,  indeed,  but  without  being  able  to 
define  it  sufficiently  for  his  own  contemplation.  The 
vagueness  of  the  project,  and  the  convulsive  effort  with 
which  he  plunges  into  the  execution  of  it,  are  equally 
characteristic  of  a  feeble-minded  man.  Wakefield 
sifts  his  ideas,  however,  as  minutely  as  he  may,  and 
finds  himself  curious  to  know  the  progress  of  matters 
at  home — how  his  exemplary  wife  will  endure  her 
widowhood,  of  a  week;  and,  briefly,  how  the  little 
sphere  of  creatures  and  circumstances,  in  which  he 
was  a  central  object,  will  be  affected  by  his  removal. 
A  morbid  vanity,  therefore,  lies  nearest  the  bottom  of 
the  affair.  But,  how  is  he  to  attain  his  ends  ?  Not, 
certainly,  by  keeping  close  in  this  comfortable  lodging, 
where,  though  he  slept  and  awoke  in  the  next  street 


WAKEFIELD.  191 

to  his  home,  he  is  as  effectually  abroad,  as  if  the  stage 
coach  had  been  whirling  him  away  all  night.  Yet, 
should  he  reappear,  the  whole  project  is  knocked  in 
the  head.  His  poor  brains  being  hopelessly  puzzled 
with  this  dilemma,  he  at  length  ventures  out,  partly 
resolving  to  cross  the  head  of  the  street,  and  send  one 
hasty  glance  towards  his  forsaken  domicile.  Habit — 
for  he  is  a  man  of  habits — takes  him  by  the  hand,  and 
guides  him,  wholly  unaware,  to  his  own  door,  where, 
just  at  the  critical  moment,  he  is  aroused  by  the  scra 
ping  of  his  foot  upon  the  step.  Wakefield !  whither 
are  you  going  ? 

At  that  instant,  his  fate  was  turning  on  the  pivot. 
Little  dreaming  of  the  doom  to  which  his  first  back 
ward  step  devotes  him,  he  hurries  away,  breathless 
with  agitation  hitherto  unfelt,  and  hardly  dares  turn 
his  head,  at  the  distant  corner.  Can  it  be,  that  no 
body  caught  sight  of  him  ?  Will  not  the  whole  house 
hold — the  decent  Mrs.  Wakefield,  the  smart  maid 
servant,  and  the  dirty  little  footboy — raise  a  hue-and- 
cry,  through  London  streets,  in  pursuit  of  their  fugitive 
lord  and  master  1  Wonderful  escape  !  He  gathers 
courage  to  pause  and  look  homeward,  but  is  perplex 
ed  with  a  sense  of  change  about  the  familiar  edifice, 
such  as  affects  us  all,  when,  after  a  separation  of 
months  or  years,  we  again  see  some  hill  or  lake,  or 
work  of  art,  with  which  we  were  friends,  of  old.  In 
ordinary  cases,  this  indescribable  impression  is  caused 
by  the  comparison  and  contrast  between  our  imperfect 


192  WAKEFIELD. 

reminiscences  and  the  reality.  In  Wakefield,  the 
magic  of  a  single  night  has  wrought  a  similar  transfor 
mation,  because,  in  that  brief  period,  a  great  moral 
change  has  been  effected.  But  this  is  a  secret  from 
himself.  Before  leaving  the  spot,  he  catches  a  far  and 
momentary  glimpse  of  his  wife,  passing  athwart  the 
front  window,  with  her  face  turned  towards  the  head 
of  the  street.  The  crafty  nincompoop  takes  to  his 
heels,  scared  with  the  idea,  that,  among  a  thousand 
such  atoms  of  mortality,  her  eye  must  have  detected 
him.  Right  glad  is  his  heart,  though  his  brain  be 
somewhat  dizzy,  when  he  finds  himself  by  the  coal-fire 
of  his  lodgings. 

So  much  for  the  commencement  of  this  long  whim- 
wham.  After  the  initial  conception,  and  the  stirring 
up  of  the  man's  sluggish  temperament  to  put  it  in 
practice,  the  whole  matter  evolves  itself  in  a  natural 
train.  We  may  suppose  him,  as  the  result  of  deep 
deliberation,  buying  a  new  wig,  of  reddish  hair,  and 
selecting  sundry  garments,  in  a  fashion  unlike  his 
customary  suit  of  brown,  from  a  Jew's  old-clothes  bag. 
It  is  accomplished.  Wakefield  is  another  man.  The 
new  system  being  now  established,  a  retrograde  move 
ment  to  the  old  would  be  almost  as  difficult  as  the  step 
that  placed  him  in  his  unparalleled  position.  Further 
more,  he  is  rendered  obstinate  by  a  sulkiness,  occasion 
ally  incident  to  his  temper,  and  brought  on,  at  present,  by 
the  inadequate  sensation  which  he  conceives  to  have 
been  produced  in  the  bosom  of  Mrs.  Wakefield.  He 


WAKEFIELD.  193 

will  not  go  back  until  she  be  frightened  half  to  death. 
Well ;  twice  or  thrice  has  she  passed  before  his  sight, 
each  time  with  a  heavier  step,  a  paler  cheek,  and  more 
anxious  brow ;  and  in  the  third  week  of  his  non-appear 
ance,  he  detects  a  portent  of  evil  entering  the  house, 
in  the  guise  of  an  apothecary.  Next  day,  the  knocker 
is  muffled.  Towards  night-fall,  comes  the  chariot  of  a 
physician,  and  deposits  its  big-wigged  and  solemn  bur 
then  at  Wakefield's  door,  whence,  after  a  quarter  of 
an  hour's  visit,  he  emerges,  perchance  the  herald  of  a 
funeral.  Dear  woman  !  Will  she  die  ?  By  this  time, 
Wakefield  is  excited  to  something  like  energy  of  feel 
ing,  but  still  lingers  away  from  his  wife's  bed-side, 
pleading  with  his  conscience,  that  she  must  not  be 
disturbed  at  such  a  juncture.  If  aught  else  restrains 
him,  he  does  not  know  it.  In  the  course  of  a  few 
weeks,  she  gradually  recovers ;  the  crisis  is  over ;  her 
heart  is  sad,  perhaps,  but  quiet;  and,  let  him  return 
soon  or  late,  it  will  never  be  feverish  for  him  again. 
Such  ideas  glimmer  through  the  mist  of  Wakefield's 
mind,  and  render  him  indistinctly  conscious,  that  an 
almost  impassable  gulf  divides  his  hired  apartment  from 
his  former  home.  '  It  is  but  in  the  next  street !'  he 
sometimes  says.  Fool !  it  is  in  another  world.  Hith 
erto,  he  has  put  off  his  return  from  one  particular  day 
to  another ;  henceforward,  he  leaves  the  precise  time 
undetermined.  Not  tomorrow — probably  next  week — 
pretty  soon.  Poor  man !  The  dead  have  nearly  as 
much  chance  of  re-visiting  their  earthly  homes,  as  the 
self-banished  Wakefield. 


194  WAKEFIELD. 

Would  that  I  had  a  folio  to  write,  instead  of  an 
article  of  a  dozen  pages  !  Then  might  I  exemplify 
how  an  influence,  beyond  our  control,  lays  its  strong 
hand  on  every  deed  which  we  do,  and  weaves  its  con 
sequences  into  an  iron  tissue  of  necessity.  Wakefield 
is  spell-bound.  We  must  leave  him,  for  ten  years  or 
so,  to  haunt  around  his  house,  without  once  crossing 
the  threshold,  and  to  be  faithful  to  his  wife,  with  all 
the  affection  of  which  his  heart  is  capable,  while  he  is 
slowly  fading  out  of  hers.  Long  since,  it  must  be 
remarked,  he  has  lost  the  perception  of  singularity  in 
his  conduct. 

Now  for  a  scene  !  Amid  the  throng  of  a  London 
street,  we  distinguish  a  man,  now  waxing  elderly,  with 
few  characteristics  to  attract  careless  observers,  yet 
bearing,  in  his  whole  aspect,  the  hand-writing  of  no 
common  fate,  for  such  as  have  the  skill  to  read  it.  He 
is  meagre ;  his  low  and  narrow  forehead  is  deeply 
wrinkled ;  his  eyes,  small  and  lustreless,  sometimes 
wander  apprehensively  about  him,  but  oftener  seem  to 
look  inward.  He  bends  his  head,  and  moves  with  an 
indescribable  obliquity  of  gait,  as  if  unwilling  to  dis 
play  his  full  front  to  the  world.  Watch  him,  long 
enough  to  see  what  we  have  described,  and  you  will 
allow,  that  circumstances — which  often  produce  re 
markable  men  from  nature's  ordinary  handiwork — 
have  produced  one  such  here.  Next,  leaving  him  to 
sidle  along  the  foot-walk,  cast  your  eyes  in  the  opposite 
direction,  where  a  portly  female,  considerably  in  the 


WAKEFIELD.  195 

wane  of  life,  with  a  prayer-book  in  her  hand,  is  pro 
ceeding  to  yonder  church.  She  has  the  placid  mien 
of  settled  widowhood.  Her  regrets  have  either  died 
away,  or  have  become  so  essential  to  her  heart,  that 
they  would  be*  poorly  exchanged  for  joy.  Just  as  the 
lean  man  and  well-conditioned  woman  are  passing,  a 
slight  obstruction  occurs,  and  brings  these  two  figures 
directly  in  contact.  Their  hands  touch ;  the  pressure 
of  the  crowd  forces  her  bosom  against  his  shoulder ; 
they  stand,  face  to  face,  staring  into  each  other's  eyes, 
After  a  ten  years'  separation,  thus  Wakefield  meets  his 
wife ! 

The  throng  eddies  away,  and  carries  them  asunder. 
The  sober  widow,  resuming  her  former  pace,  proceeds 
to  church,  but  pauses  in  the  portal,  and  throws  a  per 
plexed  glance  along  the  street.  She  passes  in,  how 
ever,  opening  her  prayer-book  as  she  goes.  And  the 
man?  With  so  wild  a  face,  that  busy  and  selfish 
London  stands  to  gaze  after  him,  he  hurries  to  his 
lodgings,  bolts  the  door,  and  throws  himself  upon  the 
bed.  The  latent  feelings  of  years  break  out ;  his 
feeble  mind  acquires  a  brief  energy  from  their  strength ; 
all  the  miserable  strangeness  of  his  life  is  revealed  to 
him  at  a  glance  :  and  he  cries- out,  passionately — 
«  Wakefield  !  Wakefield  !  You  are  mad  !' 

Perhaps  he  was  so.  The  singularity  of  his  situation 
must  have  so  moulded  him  to  itself,  that,  considered 
in  regard  to  his  fellow-creatures  and  the  business  of 
life,  he  could  not  be  said  to  possess  his  right  mind. 


196  WAKEFIELD. 

He  had  contrived,  or  rather  he  had  happened,  to  dis 
sever  himself  from  the  world — to  vanish — to  give  up  his 
place  and  privileges  with  living  men,  without  being 
admitted  among  the  dead.  The  life  of  a  hermit  is 
nowise  parallel  to  his.  He  was  in  the  bustle  of  the 
city,  as  of  old ;  but  the  crowd  swept  by,  and  saw  him 
not;  he  was,  we  may  figuratively  say,  always  beside 
his  wife,  and  at  his  hearth,  yet  must  never  feel  the 
warmth  of  the  one,  nor  the  affection  of  the  other.  It 
was  Wakefield's  unprecedented  fate,  to  retain  his 
original  share  of  human  sympathies,  and  to  be  still  in 
volved  in  human  interests,  while  he  had  lost  his  recip 
rocal  influence  on  them.  It  would  be  a  most  curious 
speculation,  to  trace  out  the  effect  of  such  circum 
stances  on  his  heart  and  intellect,  separately,  and  in 
unison.  Yet,  changed  as  he  was,  he  would  seldom  be 
conscious  of  it,  but  deem  himself  the  same  man  as 
ever ;  glimpses  of  the  truth,  indeed,  would  come,  but 
only  for  the  moment ;  and  still  he  would  keep  saying — 
'  I  shall  soon  go  back  !' — nor  reflect,  that  he  had  been 
saying  so  for  twenty  years. 

I  conceive,  also,  that  these  twenty  years  would  ap 
pear,  in  the  retrospect,  scarcely  longer  than  the  week 
to  which  Wakefield  had  at  first  limited  his  absence. 
He  would  look  .on  the  affair  as  no  more  than  an  inter 
lude  in  the  main  business  of  his  life.  When,  after  a 
little  while  more,  he  should  deem  it  time  to  re-enter  his 
parlor,  his  wife  would  clap  her  hands  for  joy,  on  be 
holding  the  middle-aged  Mr.  Wakefield.  Alas,  what 


WAKEFIELD.  197 

•*""  •'  '  r        -4*'' 

a  mistake  1  Would  Time  but  await  the  close  of  our 
favorite  follies,  we  should  be  young  men,  all  of  us,  and 
till  Doomsday. 

One  evening,  in  the  twentieth  year  since  he  vanished, 
Wakefield  is  taking  his  customary  walk  towards  the 
dwelling  which  he  still  calls  his  own.  It  is  a  gusty 
night  of  autumn,  with  frequent  showers,  that  patter 
down  upon  the  pavement,  and  are  gone,  before  a  man 
can  put  up  his  umbrella.  Pausing  near  the  house, 
Wakefield  discerns,  through  the  parlor-windows  of  the 
second  floor,  the  red  glow,  and  the  glimmer  and  fitful 
flash,  of  a  comfortable  fire.  On  the  ceiling  appears  a 
grotesque  shadow  of  good  Mrs;  Wakefield.  The  cap, 
the  nose  and  chin,  and  the  broad  waist,  form  an  admi 
rable  caricature,  which  dances,  moreover,  with  the  up- 
flickering  and  down-sinking  blaze,  almost  too  merrily 
for  the  shade  of  an  elderly  widow.  At  this  instant,  a 
shower  chances  to  fall,  and  is  driven,  by  the  unman 
nerly  gust,  full  into  Wakefield's  face  and  bosom.  He 
is  quite  penetrated  with  its  autumnal  chill.  Shall  he 
stand,  wet  and  shivering  here,  when  his  own  hearth 
has  a  good  fire  to  warm  him,  and  his  own  wife  will 
run  to  fetch  the  gray  coat  and  small-clothes,  which, 
doubtless,  she  has  kept  carefully  ,in  the  closet  of  their 
bedchamber  ?  No  !  Wakefield  is  no  such  fool.  He 
ascends  the  steps — heavily  ! — for  twenty  years  have 
stiffened  his  legs,  since  he  came  down — but  he  knows 
it  not.  Stay,  Wakefield  !  Would  you  go  to  the  sole 
home  that  is  left  you  ?  Then  step  into  your  grave  ! 


198  WAKEFIELD. 

The  door  opens.  As  he  passes  in,  we  have  a  parting 
glimpse  of  his  visage,  and  recognise  the  crafty  smile, 
which  was  the  precursor  of  the  little  joke,  that  he  has 
ever  since  been  playing  off  at  his  wife's  expense.  How 
unmercifully  has  he  quizzed  the  poor  woman !  Well . 
a  good  night's  rest  to  Wakefield  ! 

This  happy  event — supposing  it  to  be  such — could 
only  have  occurred  at  an  unpremeditated  moment.  We 
will  not  follow  our  friend  across  the  threshold.  He 
has  left  us  much  food  for  thought,  a  portion  of  which 
shall  lend  its  wisdom  to  a  moral,  and  be  shaped  into  a 
figure.  Amid  the  seeming  confusion  of  our  myste 
rious  world,  individuals  are  so  nicely  adjusted  to  a 
system,  and  systems  to  one  another,  and  to  a  whole, 
that,  by  stepping  aside  for  a  moment,  a  man  exposes 
himself  to  a  fearful  risk  of  losing  his  place  for  ever. 
Like  Wakefield,  he  may  become,  as  it  were,  the  Out 
cast  of  the  Universe. 


A    RILL    FROM    THE    TOWN 
PUMP. 


A    RILL    FROM    THE    TOWN- 
PUMP. 


(SCENE — the  corner  of  two  principal  streets*      The 
TOWN-PUMP  talking  through  its  nose.) 

NOON,  by  the  north  clock  !  Noon,  by  the  east ! 
High  noon,  too,  by  these  hot  sunbeams,  which  fall, 
scarcely  aslope,  upon  my  head,  and  almost  make  the 
water  bubble  and  smoke,  in  the  trough  under  my  nose. 
Truly,  we  public  characters  have  a  tough  time  of  it ! 
And,  among  all  the  town  officers,  chosen  at  March 
meeting,  where  is  he  that  sustains,  for  a  single  year, 
the  burthen  of  such  manifold  duties  as  are  imposed,  in 
perpetuity,  upon  the  Town-Pump  1  The  title  of '  town- 
treasurer'  is  rightfully  mine,  as  guardian  of  the  best 
treasure  that  the  town  has.  The  overseers  of  the 
poor  ought  to  make  me  their  chairman,  since  I  pro 
vide  bountifully  for  the  pauper,  without  expense  to 

*  Essex  and  Washington  Streets,  Salem. 
R 


202       A      RILJ,      FROM      THE      TOWN-PUMP. 

him  that  pays  taxes.  I  am  at  the  head  of  the  fire 
department,  and  one  of  the  physicians  to  the  board  of 
health.  As  a  keeper  of  the  peace,  all  water-drinkers 
will  confess  me  equal  to  the  constable.  I  perform  some 
of  the  duties  of  the  town-clerk,  by  promulgating  public 
notices,  when  they  are  posted  on  my  front.  To  speak 
within  bounds,  I  am  the  chief  person  of  the  munici 
pality,  and  exhibit,  moreover,  an  admirable  pattern  to 
my  brother  officers,  by  the  cool,  steady,  upright,  down 
right,  and  impartial  discharge  of  my  business,  and  the 
constancy  with  which  I  stand  to  my  post.  Summer  or 
winter,  nobody  seeks  me  in  vain ;  for,  all  day  long,  I 
am  seen  at  the  busiest  corner,  just  above  the  market, 
stretching  out  my  arms,  to  rich  and  poor  alike  ;  and 
at  night,  I  hold  a  lantern  over  my  head,  both  to  show 
where  I  am,  and  keep  people  out  of  the  gutters. 

At  this  sultry  noontide,  I  am  cupbearer  to  the 
parched  populace,  for  whose  benefit  an  iron  goblet  is 
chained  to  my  waist.  Like  a  dram-seller  on  the  mall, 
at  muster-day,  I  cry  aloud  to  all  and  sundry,  in  my 
plainest  accents,  and  at  the  very  tiptop  of  my  voice. 
Here  it  is,  gentlemen  !  Here  is  the  good  liquor  !  Walk 
up,  walk  up,  gentlemen,  walk  up,  walk  up  !  Here  is 
the  superior  stuff!  Here  is  the  unadulterated  ale  of 
father  Adam — better  than  Cognac,  Hollands,  Jamaica, 
strong  beer,  or  wine  of  any  price  ;  here  it  is,  by  the 
hogshead  or  the  single  glass,  and  not  a  cent  to  pay ! 
Walk  up,  gentlemen,  walk  up,  and  help  yourselves  ! 

It  were  a  pity,  if  all  this  outcry  should  draw  no  cus- 


ARILL      FROM      THE      TOWN-PUMP.       203 

tomers.     Here  they   come.     A  hot  day,   gentlemen ! 
Quaff,  and  away  again,  so  as  to  keep  yourselves   in 
a  nice  cool  sweat.     You,  my  friend,  will  need  another 
cup-full,  to  wash  the  dust  out  of  your  throat,  if  it  be  as 
thick  there  as  it  is  on  your  cowhide  shoes.     I  see  that 
you  have  trudged  half  a  score  of  miles,  today ;    and, 
like   a  wise  man,  have  passed    by  the    taverns,   and 
stopped  at  the  running  brooks  and  well-curbs.     Other 
wise,  betwixt  heat  without  and  fire  within,  you  would 
have  been  burnt  to  a  cinder,  or  melted  down  to  no 
thing  at  all,  in  the  fashion  of  a  jelly-fish.     Drink,  and 
make  room  for  that  other  fellow,  who  seeks  my  aid  to 
quench  the  fiery  fever  of  last  night's  potations,  which 
he  drained   from  no   cup   of  mine.     Welcome,   most 
rubicund  sir !     You  and  I  have  been  great  strangers, 
hitherto  ;  nor,  to  confess  the  truth,  will  my  nose  be 
anxious  for  a  closer  intimacy,  till  the  fumes  of  your 
breath  be  a  little  less  potent.     Mercy  on  you,  man  ! 
The  water  absolutely  hisses  down  your  red-hot  gullet, 
and  is  converted  quite  to  steam,  in  the  miniature  tophet, 
which  you  mistake   for   a  stomach.     Fill  again,   and 
tell  me,  on  the  word  of  an  honest  toper,  did  you  ever, 
in  cellar,  tavern,  or  any  kind  of  a  dram-shop,  spend 
the  price  of  your  children's  food,  for  a  swig  half  so 
delicious?     Now,  for  the  first  time  these  ten   years, 
you  know  the  flavor  of  cold  water.     Good-by  ;    and, 
whenever  you   are  thirsty,   remember  that  I   keep   a 
constant  supply,  at  the  old  stand.      Who  next  ?     Oh, 
my  little    friend,  you  are  let  loose  from  school,  and 


204       A      RILL      FROM      THE      TOWN-PUMP. 

come  hither  to  scrub  your  blooming  face,  and  drown 
the  memory  of  certain  taps  of  the  ferule,  and  other 
schoolboy  troubles,  in  a  draught  from  the  Town-Pump. 
Take  it,  pure  as  the  current  of  your  young  life.  Take 
it,  and  may  your  heart  and  tongue  never  be  scorched 
with  a  fiercer  thirst  than  now  !  There,  my  dear  child, 
put  down  the  cup,  and  yield  your  place  to  this  elderly 
gentleman,  who  treads  so  tenderly  over  the  paving- 
stones,  that  I  suspect  he  is  afraid  of  breaking  them. 
What !  he  limps  by,  without  so  much  as  thanking  me, 
as  if  my  hospitable  offers  were  meant  only  for  people, 
who  have  no  wine-cellars.  Well,  well,  sir — no  harm 
done,  I  hope  !  Go  draw  the  cork,  tip  the  decanter ; 
but,  when  your  great  toe  shall  set  you  a-roaring,  it  will 
be  no  affair  of  mine.  If  gentlemen  love  the  pleasant 
titillation  of  the  gout,  it  is  all  one  to  the  Town-Pump 
This  thirsty  dog,  with  his  red  tongue  lolling  out,  does 
not  scorn  my  hospitality,  but  stands  on  his  hind  legs, 
And  laps  eagerly  out  of  the  trough.  See  how  lightly 
he  capers  away  again  !  Jowler,  did  your  worship  ever 
have  the  gout  ? 

Are  you  all  satisfied  1  Then  wipe  your  mouths,  my 
good  friends  ;  and,  while  my  spout  has  a  moment's 
leisure,  I  will  delight  the  town  with  a  few  historical 
reminiscences.  In  far  antiquity,  beneath  a  darksome 
shadow  of  venerable  boughs,  a  spring  bubbled  out  of 
the  leaf-strewn  earth,  in  the  very  spot  where  you  now 
behold  me,  on  the  sunny  pavement.  The  water  was 
as  bright  and  clear,  and  deemed  as  precious,  as  liquid 


A      RILL      FROM      THE      TOWN-PUMP.       205 

diamonds.  The  Indian  sagamores  drank  of  it,  from 
time  immemorial,  till  the  fatal  deluge  of  the  fire-water 
burst  upon  the  red  men,  and  swept  their  whole  race 
away  from  the  cold,  fountains.  Endicott,  and  his  fol 
lowers,  came  next,  and  often  knelt  down  to  drink, 
dipping  their  long  beards  in  the  spring.  The  richest 
goblet,  then,  was  of  birch  bark.  Governor  Winthrop, 
after  a  journey  afoot  from  Boston,  drank  here,  out  of 
the  hollow  of  his  hand.  The  elder  Higginson  here 
wet  his  palm,  and  laid  it  on  the  brow  of  the  first  town- 
born  child.  For  many  years,  it  was  the  watering-place, 
and,  as  it  were,  the  washbowl  of  the  vicinity  —  whither 
all  decent  folks  resorted,  to  purify  their  visages,  and 
gaze  at  them  afterwards  —  at  least,  the  pretty  maidens 
did  —  in  the  mirror  which  it  made.  On  Sabbath  days, 
whenever  a  babe  was  to  be  baptized,  the  sexton  filled 
his  basin  here,  and  placed  it  on  the  communion-table 
of  the  humble  meeting-house,  which  partly  covered  the 
site  of  yonder  stately  brick  one.  Thus,  one  generation 
after  another  was  consecrated  to  Heaven  by  its  waters, 
•  and  cast  their  waxing  and  waning  shadows  into  its 
lassy  bosom,  and  vanished  from  the  earth,  as  if  mortal 


g 
ji 


were  but  a  flitting  image  in  a  fountain.  Finally, 
fountain  vanished  also.  Cellars  were  dug  on  all 
sides,  and  cart-loads  of  gravel  flung  upon  its  source, 
whence  oozed  a  turbid  stream,  forming  a  mudpuddle, 
at  the  corner  of  two  streets.  In  the  hot  months,  when 
its  refreshment  was  most  needed,  the  dust  flew  in 
clouds  over  the  forgotten  birthplace  of  the  waters,  now 
R* 


206      A      RILL      FROM      THE      TOWN-PUMP. 

their  grave.  But,  in  the  course  of  time,  a  Town- 
Pump  was  sunk  into  the  source  of  the  ancient  spring ; 
and  when  the  first  decayed,  another  took  its  place — 
and  then  another,  and  still  anothej — till  here  stand  I, 
gentlemen  and  ladies,  to  serve  you  with  my  iron  goblet. 
Drink,  and  be  refreshed !  The  water  is  as  pure  and 
cold  as  that  which  slaked  the  thirst  of  the  red  Saga 
more,  beneath  the  aged  boughs,  though  now  the  gem 
of  the  wilderness  is  treasured  under  these  hot  stones, 
where  no  shadow  falls,  but  from  the  brick  buildings. 
And  be  it  the  moral  of  my  story,  that,  as  this  wasted 
and  long-lost  fountain  is  now  known  and  prized  again, 
so  shall  the  virtues  of  cold  water,  too  little  valued 
since  your  fathers'  days,  be  recognised  by  all. 

Your  pardon,  good  people  !  I  must  interrupt  my 
stream  of  eloquence,  and  spout  forth  a  stream  of  water, 
to  replenish  the  trough  for  this  teamster  and  his  two 
yoke  of  oxen,  who  have  come  from  Topsfield,  or  some 
where  along  that  way.  No  part  of  my  business  is 
pleasanter  than  the  watering  of  cattle.  Look  !  how 
rapidly  they  lower  the  watermark  on  the  sides  of  the, 
trough,  till  their  capacious  stomachs  are  moisteneo 
with  a  gallon  or  two  apiece,  and  they  can  afford  tim~ 
to  breathe  it  in,  with  sighs  of  calm  enjoyment.  ISfo 
they  roll  their  quiet  eyes  around  the  brim  of  their 
monstrous  drinking-vessel.  An  ox  is  your  true  toper. 

But  I  perceive,  my  dear  auditors,  that  you  afe 
impatient  for  the  remainder  of  my  discourse.  Impute 
it,  I  beseech  you,  to  no  defect  of  modesty,  if  I  insist  a 


A      RTLL      FROM      THE      TOWN-PUMP.       207 

little  longer  on  so  fruitful  a  topic  as  my  own  multifa 
rious  merits.  It  is  altogether  for  your  good.  The 
better  you  think  of  me,  the  better  men  and  women 
will  you  find  yourselves.  I  shall  say  nothing  of  my 
all-important  aid  on  washing-days ;  though,  on  that 
account  alone,  I  might  call  myself  the  household  god 
of  a  hundred  families.  Far  be  it  from  me,  also,  to 
hint,  my  respectable  friends,  at  the  show  of  dirty  faces, 
which  you  would  present,  without  my  pains  to  keep 
you  clean.  Nor  will  I  remind  you  how  often,  when 
the  midnight  bells  make  you  tremble  for  your  combus 
tible  town,  you  have  fled  to  the  Town-Pump,  and 
found  me  always  at  my  post,  firm,  amid  the  confusion, 
and  ready  to  drain  my  vital  current  in  your  behalf. 
Neither  is  it  worth  while  to  lay  much  stress  on  my 
claims  to  a  medical  diploma,  as  the  physician,  whose 
simple  rule  of  practice  is  preferable  to  all  the  nauseous 
lore,  which  has  found  men  sick  or  left  them  so,  since 
the  days  of  Hippocrates.  Let  us  take  a  broader  view 
of  my  beneficial  influence  on  mankind. 

No ;  these  are  trifles,  compared  with  the  merits 
which  wise  men  concede  to  me — if  not  in  my  single 
self,  yet  as  the  representative  of  a  class — of  being  the 
ffrand  reformer  of  the  age.  From  my  spout,  and  such 
spouts  as  mine,  must  flow  the  stream,  that  shall  cleanse 
our  earth  of  the  vast  portion  of  its  crime  and  anguish, 
which  has  gushed  from  the  fiery  fountains  of  the  still. 
In  this  mighty  enterprise,  the  cow  shall  be  my  great 
confederate.  Milk  and  water  !  The  TOWN-PUMP  and 


208       A      RILL      FROM      THE      TOWN-PUMP. 

the  Cow  !  Such  is  the  glorious  copartnership,  that 
shall  tear  down  the  distilleries  and  brewhouses,  uproot 
the  vineyards,  shatter  the  cider-presses,  ruin  the  tea 
and  coffee  trade,  and,  finally  monopolize  the  whole 
business  of  quenching  thirst.  Blessed  consummation  ! 
Then,  Poverty  shall  pass  away  from  the  land,  finding 
no  hovel  so  wretched,  where  her  squalid  form  may 
shelter  itself.  Then  Disease,  for  lack  of  other  victims, 
shall  gnaw  its  own  heart,  and  die.  Then  Sin,  if  she 
do  not  die,  shall  lose  half  her  strength.  Until  now, 
the  phrensy  of  hereditary  fever  has  raged  in  the  human 
blood,  transmitted  from  sire  to  son,  and  re-kindled,  in 
every  generation,  by  fresh  draughts  of  liquid  flame. 
When  that  inward  fire  shall  be  extinguished,  the  heat 
of  passion  cannot  but  grow  cool,  and  war — the  drunk 
enness  of  nations — perhaps  will  cease.  At  least,  there 
will  be  no  war  of  households.  The  husband  and  wife, 
drinking  deep  of  peaceful  joy — a  calm  bliss  of  temper 
ate  affections — shall  pass  hand  in  hand  through  life, 
and  lie  down,  not  reluctantly,  at  its  protracted  close. 
To  them,  the  past  will  be  no  turmoil  of  mad  dreams, 
nor  the  future  an  eternity  of  such  moments  as  follow 
the  delirium  of  the  drunkard.  Their  dead  faces  shall 
express  what  their  spirits  were,  and  are  to  be,  by  a 
lingering  smile  of  memory  and  hope. 

Ahem  !     Dry  work,  this  speechifying  ;  especially  to 
an  unpractised  orator.     I  never  conceived,  till  now,    * 
what   toil    the   temperance-lecturers   undergo   for  my 
sake.     Hereafter,  they  shall  have  the  business  to  them- 


A      RILL      FROM      THE      TOWN-PUMP.       209 

selves.  Do,  some  kind  Christian,  pump  a  stroke  or 
two,  just  to  wet  my  whistle.  Thank  you,  sir  !  My 
dear  hearers,  when  the  world  shall  have  been  regen 
erated,  by  my  instrumentality,  you  will  collect  your 
useless  vats  and  liquor  casks,  into  one  great  pile,  and 
make  a  bonfire,  in  honor  of  the  Town-Pump.  And, 
when  I  shall  have  decayed,  like  my  predecessors,  then, 
if  you  revere  my  memory,  let  a  marble  fountain,  richly 
sculptured,  take  my  place  upon  this  spot.  Such  mon 
uments  should  be  erected  everywhere,  and  inscribed 
with  the  names  of  the  distinguished  champions  of  my 
cause.  Now  listen ;  for  something  very  important  is 
to  come  next. 

There  are  two  or  three  honest  friends  of  mine — and 
true  friends,  I  know,  they  are — who,  nevertheless,  by 
their  fiery  pugnacity  in  my  behalf,  do  put  me  in  fearful 
hazard  of  a  broken  nose,  or  even  of  a  total  overthrow 
upon  the  pavement,  and  the  loss  of  the  treasure  which 
I  guard.  I  pray  you,  gentlemen,  let  this  fault  be 
amended.  Is  it  decent,  think  you,  to  get  tipsy  with 
zeal  for  temperance,  and  take  up  the  honorable  cause 
of  the  Town-Pump,  in  the  style  of  a  toper,  fighting  for 
his  brandy-bottle  ?  Or,  can  the  excellent  qualities  of 
cold  water  be  no  otherwise  exemplified,  than  by  plung 
ing,  slapdash,  into  hot  water,  and  wofully  scalding 
yourselves  and  other  people  ?  Trust  me,  they  may. 
In  the  moral  warfare,  which  you  are  to  wage — and, 
indeed,  in  the  whole  conduct  of  your  lives — you  cannot 
choose  a  better  example  than  myself,  who  have  never 


210       A      RILL      PROM      THE      TOWN-PUMP. 

permitted  the  dust,  and  sultry  atmosphere,  the  turbu 
lence  and  manifold  disquietudes  of  the  world  around 
me,  to  reach  that  deep,  calm  well  of  purity,  which 
may  be  called  my  soul.  And  whenever  I  pour  out 
that  soul,  it  is  to  cool  earth's  fever,  or  cleanse  its 
stains. 

One  o'clock  !  Nay,  then,  if  the  dinner-bell  begins 
to  speak,  I  may  as  well  hold  my  peace.  Here  comes 
a  pretty  young  girl  of  my  acquaintance,  with  a  large 
stone  pitcher  for  me  to  fill.  May  she  draw  a  husband, 
while  drawing  her  water,  as  Rachel  did  of  old.  Hold 
out  your  vessel,  my  dear !  There  it  is,  full  to  the 
brim  ;  so  now  run  home,  peeping  at  your  sweet  image 
in  the  pitcher,  as  you  go ;  and  forget  not,  in  a  glass  of 
my  own  liquor,  to  drink — '  SUCCESS  TO  THE  TOWN- 
PUMP  !' 


THE    GREAT    CARBUNCLE 


THE   GREAT   CARBUNCLE.* 


A    MYSTERY    OF    THE    WHITE   MOUNTAINS. 


AT  night-fall,  once,  in  the  olden  time,  on  the  rug 
ged  side  of  one  of  the  Crystal  Hills,  a  party  of  adven 
turers  were  refreshing  themselves,  after  a  toilsome  and 
fruitless  quest  for  the  Great  Carbuncle.  They  had 
come  thither,  not  as  friends,  nor  partners  in  the  enter 
prise,  but  each,  save  one  youthful  pair,  impelled  by 
his  own  selfish  and  solitary  longing  for  this  wondrous 
gem.  Their  feeling  of  brotherhood,  however,  was 
strong  enough  to  induce  them  to  contribute  a  mutual 
aid  in  building  a  rude  hut  of  branches,  and  kindling  a 
great  fire  of  shattered  pines,  that  had  drifted  down  the 
headlong  current  of  the  Amonoosuck,  on  the  lower 
bank  of  which  they  were  to  pass  the  night.  There 

*  The  Indian  tradition,  on  which  this  somewhat  extravagant  tale  is  found 
ed,  is  both  too  wild  and  too  beautiful,  to  be  adequately  wrought  up,  in  prose. 
Sullivan,  in  hishistory  of  Maine,  written  since  the  Revolution,  remarks,  that 
even  then,  the  existence  of  the  Great  Carbuncle  was  not  entirely  discredited. 

S 


214  THE      GREAT      CARBUNCLE. 

was  but  one  of  their  number,  perhaps,  who  had  become 
so  estranged  from  natural  sympathies,  by  the  absorbing 
spell  of  the  pursuit,  as  to  acknowledge  no  satisfaction 
at  the  sight  of  human  faces,  in  the  remote  and  solitary 
region  whither  they  had  ascended.  A  vast  extent  of 
wilderness  lay  between  them  and  the  nearest  settle 
ment,  while  scant  a  mile  above  their  heads,  was  that 
bleak  verge,  where  the  hills  throw  off  their  shaggy 
mantle  of  forest  trees,  and  either  robe  themselves  in 
clouds,  or  tower  naked  into  the  sky.  The  roar  of  the 
Amonoosuck  would  have  been  too  awful  for  endurance, 
if  only  a  solitary  man  had  listened,  while  the  mountain 
stream  talked  with  the  wind. 

The  adventurers,  therefore,  exchanged  hospitable 
greetings,  and  welcomed  one  another  to  the  hut,  where 
each  man  was  the  host,  and  all  were  the  guests  of  the 
whole  company.  They  spread  their  individual  supplies 
of  food  on  the  flat  surface  of  a  rock,  and  partook  of  a 
general  repast ;  at  the  close  of  which,  a  sentiment  of 
good  fellowship  was  perceptible  among  the  party, 
though  repressed  by  the  idea,  that  the  renewed  search 
for  the  Great  Carbuncle  must  make  them  strangers 
again,  in  the  morning.  Seven  men  and  one  young 
woman,  they  warmed  themselves  together  at  the  fire, 
which  extended  its  bright  wall  along  the  whole  front  of 
their  wigwam.  As  they  observed  the  various  and  con 
trasted  figures  that  made  up  the  assemblage,  each  man 
looking  like  a  caricature  of  himself,  in  the  unsteady 
light  that  flickered  over  him,  they  came  mutually  to 


THE      GREAT      CARBUNCLE.  215 

the  conclusion,  that  an  odder  society  had  never  met, 
in  city  or  wilderness — on  mountain  or  plain. 

The  eldest  of  the  group,  a  tall,  lean,  weather-beaten 
man,  some  sixty  years  of  age,  was  clad  in  the  skins  of 
wild  animals,  whose  fashion  of  dress  he  did  well  to 
imitate,  since  the  deer,  the  wolf,  and  the  bear,  had 
long  been  his  most  intimate  companions.  He  was  one 
of  those  ill-fated  mortals,  such  as  the  Indians  told  of, 
whom,  in  their  early  youth,  the  Great  Carbuncle  smote 
with  a  peculiar  madness,  and  became  the  passionate 
dream  of  their  existence.  All,  who  visited  that  region, 
knew  him  as  the  Seeker,  and  by  no  other  name.  As 
none  could  remember  when  he  first  took  up  the  search, 
there  went  a  fable  in  the  valley  of  the  Saco,  that  for 
his  inordinate  lust  after  the  Great  Carbuncle,  he  had 
been  condemned  to  wander  among  the  mountains  till 
the  end  of  time,  still  with  the  same  feverish  hopes  at 
sunrise — the  same  despair  at  eve.  Near  this  miserable 
Seeker  sat  a  little  elderly  personage,  wearing  a  high 
crowned  hat,  shaped  somewhat  like  a  crucible.  He 
was  from  beyond  the  sea,  a  Doctor  Cacaphodel,  who 
had  wilted  and  dried  himself  into  a  mummy,  by  con 
tinually  stooping  over  charcoal  furnaces,  and  inhaling 
unwholesome  fumes,  during  his  researches  in  chemistry 
and  alchymy.  It  was  told  of  him,  whether  truly  or 
not,  that,  at  the  commencement  of  his  studies,  he  had 
drained  his  body  of  all  its  richest  blood,  and  wasted 
it,  with  other  inestimable  ingredients,  in  an  unsuccess 
ful  experiment — and  had  never  been  a  well  man  since. 


216  THE      GREAT      CARBUNCLE. 

Another  of  the  adventurers  was  Master  Ichabod  Pigs- 
nort,  a  weighty  merchant  and  selectman  of  Boston,  and 
an  elder  of  the  famous  Mr.  Norton's  church.  His 
enemies  had  a  ridiculous  story,  that  Master  Pigsnort 
was  accustomed  to  spend  a  whole  hour,  after  prayer- 
time,  every  morning  and  evening,  in  wallowing  naked 
among  an  immense  quantity  of  pine-tree  shillings, 
which  were  the  earliest  silver  coinage  of  Massachu 
setts.  The  fourth,  whom  we  shall  notice,  had  no 
name,  that  his  companions  knew  of,  and  was  chiefly 
distinguished  by  a  sneer  that  always  contorted  his 
thin  visage,  and  by  a  prodigious  pair  of  spectacles, 
which  were  supposed  to>  deform  and  discolor  the  whole 
face  of  nature,  to  this  gentleman's  perception.  The 
fifth  adventurer  likewise  lacked  a  name,  which  was 
the  greater  pity,  as  he  appeared  to  be  a  poet.  He  was 
a  bright-eyed  man,  but  wofully  pined  away,  which  was 
no  more  than  natural,  if,  as  some  people  affirmed,  his 
ordinary  diet  was  fog,  morning  mist,  and  a  slice  of  the 
densest  cloud  within  his  reach,  sauced  with  moonshine, 
whenever  he  could  get  it.  Certain  it  is,  that  the 
poetry,  which  flowed  from  him,  had  a  smack  of  all 
these  dainties.  The  sixth  of  the  party  was  a  young 
man  of  haughty  mien,  and  sat  somewhat  apart  from 
the  rest,  wearing  his  plumed  hat  loftily  among  his 
elders,  while  the  fire  glittered  on  the  rich  embroidery 
of  his  dress,  and  gleamed  intensely  on  the  jeweled 
pommel  of  his  sword.  This  was  the  Lord  de  Vere, 
who,  when  at  home,  was  said  to  spend  much  of  his 


THE      GREAT      CARBUNCLE.  217 

time  in  the  burial-vault  of  his  dead  progenitors,  rumma 
ging  their  mouldy  coffins  in  search  of  all  the  earthly 
pride  and  vain-glory,  that  was  hidden  among  bones  and 
dust ;  so  that,  besides  his  own  share,  he  had  the  col 
lected  haughtiness  of  his  whole  line  of  ancestry. 

Lastly,  there  was  a  handsome  youth  in  rustic  garb, 
and  by  his  side,  a  blooming  little  person,  in  whom  a 
delicate  shade  of  maiden  reserve  was  just  melting  into 
the  rich  glow  of  a  young  wife's  affection.  Her  name 
was  Hannah,  and  her  husband's  Matthew  ;  two  homely 
names,  yet  well  enough  adapted  to  the  simple  pair, 
who  seemed  strangely  out  of  place  among  the  whimsical 
fraternity  whose  wits  had  been  set  agog  by  the  Great 
Carbuncle. 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  one  hut,  in  the  bright  blaze 
of  the  same  fire,  sat  this  varied  group  of  adventurers, 
all  so  intent  upon  a  single  object,  that,  of  whatever 
else  they  began  to  speak,  their  closing  words  were 
sure  to  be  illuminated  with  the  Great  Carbuncle. 
Several  related  the  circumstances  that  brought  them 
thither.  One  had  listened  to  a  traveller's  tale  of  this 
marvelous  stone,  in  his  own  distant  country,  and  had 
-immediately  been  seized  with  such  a  thirst  for  behold 
ing  it,  as  (could  only  be  quenched  in  its  intensest  lustre. 
Another,  so  long  ago  as  when  the  famous  Captain 
Smith  visited  these  coasts,  had  seen  it  blazing  far  at 
sea,  and  had  felt  no  rest  in  all  the  intervening  years, 
till  now  that  he  took  up  the  search.  A  third,  being 
encamped  on  a  hunting  expedition,  full  forty  miles  south 


218  THE      GREAT      CARBUNCLE. 

of  the  White  Mountains,  awoke  at  midnight,  and  be 
held  the  Great  Carbuncle  gleaming  like  a  meteor,  so 
that  the  shadows  of  the  trees  fell  backward  from  it. 
They  spoke  of  the  innumerable  attempts,  which  had 
been  made  to  reach  the  spot,  and  of  the  singular 
fatality  which  had  hitherto  withheld  success  from  all 
adventurers,  though  it  might  seem  so  easy  to  follow  to 
its  source  a  light  that  overpowered  the  moon,  and 
almost  matched  the  sun.  It  was  observable  that  each 
smiled  scornfully  at  the  madness  of  every  other,  in  an 
ticipating  better  fortune  than  the  past,  yet  nourished  a 
scarcely  hidden  conviction,  that  he  would  himself  be 
the  favored  one.  As  if  to  allay  their  too  sanguine 
hopes,  they  recurred  to  the  Indian  traditions,  that  a 
spirit  kept  watch  about  the  gem,  and  bewildered  those 
who  sought  it,  either  by  removing  it  from  peak  to  peak 
of  the  higher  hills,  or  by  calling  up  a  mist  from  the 
enchanted  lake  over  which  it  hung.  But  these  tales 
were  deemed  unworthy  of  credit;  all  professing  to 
believe,  that  the  search  had  been  baffled  by  want  of 
sagacity  or  perseverance  in  the  adventurers,  or  such 
other  causes  as  might  naturally  obstruct  the  passage 
to  any  given  point,  among  the  intricacies  of  forest, 
valley,  and  mountain. 

In  a  pause  of  the  conversation,  the  wearer  of  the 
prodigious  spectacles  looked  round  upon  the  party, 
making  each  individual,  in  turn,  the  object  of  the 
sneer  which  invariably  dwelt  upon  his  countenance. 

1  So,  fellow-pilgrims,'   said  he,   '  here  we  are,  seven 


THE      GREAT      CARBUNCLE.  219 

wise  men  and  one  fair  damsel — who,  doubtless,  is  as 
wise  as  any  gray-beard  of  the  company :  here  we  are, 
I  say,  all  bound  on  the  same  goodly  enterprise.  Me- 
thinks  now,  it  were  not  amiss,  that  each  of  us  declare 
what  he  proposes  to  do  with  the  Great  Carbuncle, 
provided  he  have  the  good  hap  to  clutch  it.  What 
says  our  friend  in  the  bear-skin?  How  mean  you, 
good  sir,  to  enjoy  the  prize  which  you  have  been 
seeking,  the  Lord  knows  how  long,  among  the  Crystal 
Hills  V 

*  How  enjoy  it!'  exclaimed  the  aged  Seeker,  bit 
terly.  *  I  hope  for  no  enjoyment  from  it — that  folly  has 
past  long  ago  !  I  keep  up  the  search  for  this  accursed 
stone,  because  the  vain  ambition  of  my  youth  has  be 
come  a  fate  upon  me,  in  old  age.  The  pursuit  alone 
is  my  strength — the  energy  of  my  soul — the  warmth 
of  my  blood,  and  the  pith  and  marrow  of  my  bones ! 
Were  I  to  turn  my  back  upon  it,  I  should  fall  down  • 
dead,  on  the  hither  side  of  the  Notch,  which  is  the  gate 
way  of  this  mountain  region.  Yet,  not  to  have  my 
wasted  life-time  back  again,  would  I  give  up  my  hopes 
of  the  Great  Carbuncle  !  Having  found  it,  I  shall  bear 
it  to  a  certain  cavern  that  I  wot  of,  and  there,  grasp 
ing  it  in  my  arms,  lie  down  and  die,  and  keep  it  buried 
with  me  for  ever.' 

1  Oh,  wretch,  regardless  of  the  interests  of  science  !' 
cried  Doctor  Cacaphodel,  with  philosophic  indigna 
tion.  '  Thou  art  not  worthy  to  behold,  even  from 
afar  off,  the  lustre  of  this  most  precious  gem  that  ever 


220  THE      GREAT      CARBUNCLE. 

0 

was  concocted  in  the  laboratory  of  Nature.  Mine  is 
the  sole  purpose  for  which  a  wise  man  may  desire  the 
possession  of  the  Great  Carbuncle.  Immediately  on 
obtaining  it — for  I  have  a  presentiment,  good  people, 
that  the  prize  is  reserved  to  crown  my  scientific  repu 
tation — I  shall  return  to  Europe,  and  employ  my  remain 
ing  years  in  reducing  it  to  its  first  elements.  A  portion 
of  the  stone  will  I  grind  to  impalpable  powder  ;  othe 
parts  shall  be  dissolved  in  acids,  or  whatever  solvents 
will  act  upon  so  admirable  a  composition;  and  the 
remainder  I  design  to  melt  in  the  crucible,  or  set  on 
fire  with  the  blow-pipe.  By  these  various  methods,  I 
shall  gain  an  accurate  analysis,  and  finally  bestow 
the  result  of  my  labors  upon  the  world,  in  a  folio 
volume.' 

'  Excellent !'  quoth  the  man  with  the  spectacles. 
(  Nor  need  you  hesitate,  learned  sir,  on  account  of  the 
necessary  destruction  of  the  gem  ;  since  the  perusal  of 
your  folio  may  teach  every  mother's  son  of  us  to  con 
coct  a  Great  Carbuncle  of  his  own.' 

'  But,  verily,'  said  Master  Ichabod  Pigsnort,  '  for 
mine  own  part,  I  object  to  the  making  of  these  counter 
feits,  as  being  calculated  to  reduce  the  marketable 
value  of  the  true  gem.  I  tell  ye  frankly,  sirs,  I  have 
an  interest  in  keeping  up  the  price.  Here  have  I 
quitted  my  regular  traffic,  leaving  my  warehouse  in  the 
care  of  my  clerks,  and  putting  my  credit  to  great 
hazard,  and  furthermore,  have  put  myself  in  peril  of 
death  or  captivity  by  the  accursed  heathen  savages — 


THE      GREAT      CARBUNCLE.  221 

and  all  this  without  daring  to  ask  the  prayers  of  the 
congregation,  because  the  quest  for  the  Great  Car 
buncle  is  deemed  little  better  than  a  traffic  with  the 
evil  one.  Now  think  ye  that  I  would  have  done  this 
grievous  wrong  to  my  soul,  body,  reputation  and  estate, 
without  a  reasonable  chance  of  profit  1' 

1  Not  I,  pious  Master  Pigsnort,'  said  the  man  with 
the  spectacles.  '  I  never  laid  such  a  great  folly  to  thy 
charge.' 

'  Truly,  I  hope  not,'  said  the  merchant.  *  Now,  as 
touching  this  Great  Carbuncle,  I  am  free  to  own  that  I 
have  never  had  a  glimpse  of  it;  but  be  it  only  the 
hundredth  part  so  bright  as  people  tell,  it  will  surely 
outvalue  the  Great  Mogul's  best  diamond,  which  he 
holds  at  an  incalculable  sum.  Wherefore,  I  am  mind 
ed  to  put  the  Great  Carbuncle  on  shipboard,  and 
voyage  with  it  to  England,  France,  Spain,  Italy,  or 
into  Heathendom,  if  Providence  should  send  me 
thither,  and,  in  a  word,  dispose  of  the  gem  to  the  best 
bidder  among  the  potentates  of  the  earth,  that  he  may 
place  it  among  his  crown  jewels.  If  any  of  ye  have  a 
wiser  plan,  let  him  expound  it.' 

'  That  have  I,  thou  sordid  man  !'  exclaimed  the  poet. 
'  Dost  thou  desire  nothing  brighter  than  gold,  that  thou 
wouldst  transmute  all  this  ethereal  lustre  into  such 
dross,  as  thou  wallowest  in  already  ?  For  myself, 
hiding  the  jewel  under  my  cloak,  I  shall  hie  me  back 
to  my  attick  chamber,  in  one  of  the  darksome  alleys 
of  London.  There,  night  and  day,  will  I  gaze  upon 


222  THE      GREAT      CARBUNCLE. 

it — my  soul  shall  drink  its  radiance — it  shall  be  dif 
fused  throughout  my  intellectual  powers,  and  gleam 
brightly  in  every  line  of  poesy  that  I  indite.  Thus, 
long  ages  after  I  am  gone,  the  splendor  of  the  Great 
Carbuncle  will  blaze  around  my  name  !' 

'  Well  said,  Master  Poet !'  cried  he  of  the  spectacles. 
'  Hide  it  under  thy  cloak,  say'st  thou  ?  Why,  it  will 
gleam  through  the  holes,  and  make  thee  look  like  a 
jack-o'lantern !' 

'  To  think  !'  ejaculated  the  Lord  de  Vere,  rather  to 
himself,  than  his  companions,  the  best  of  .whom  he 
held  utterly  unworthy  of  his  intercourse, — 'to  think 
that  a  fellow  in  a  tattered  cloak  should  talk  of  convey 
ing  the  Great  Carbuncle  to  a  garret  in  Grub  street ! 
Have  not  I  resolved  within  myself,  that  the  whole 
earth  contains  no  fitter  ornament  for  the  great  hall  of 
my  ancestral  castle  1  There  shall  it  flame  for  ages, 
making  a  noonday  of  midnight,  glittering  on  the  suits 
of  armor,  the  banners,  and  escutcheons,  that  hang 
around  the  wall,  and  keeping  bright  the  memory  of 
heroes.  Wherefore  have  all  other  adventurers  sought 
the  prize  in  vain,  but  that  I  might  win  it,  and  make  it 
a  symbol  of  the  glories  of  our  lofty  line?  And  never, 
on  the  diadem  of  the  White  Mountains,  did  the  Great 
Carbuncle  hold  a  place  half  so  honored,  as  is  reserved 
for  it  in  the  hall  of  the  de  Veres !' 

'  It  is  a  noble  thought,'  said  the  Cynic,  with  an 
obsequious  sneer.  '  Yet  might  I  presume  to  say  so, 
the  gem  would  make  a  rare  sepulchral  lamp,  and  would 


THE      GREAT      CARBUNCLE.  223 

display  the  glories  of  your  lordship's  progenitors  more 
truly  in  the  ancestral  vault,  than  in  the  castle  hall.' 

'•Nay  forsooth,'  observed  Matthew,  the  young  rustic, 
who  sat  hand  in  hand  with  his  bride,  '  the  gentleman 
has  bethought  himself  of  a  profitable  use  for  this  bright 
stone.  Hannah  here  and  I  are  seeking  it  for  a  like 
purpose.' 

1  How,  fellow  !'  exclaimed  his  lordship,  in  surprise. 
'  What  castle  hall  hast  thou  to  hang  it  in  ?' 

'  No  castle,'  replied  Matthew, '  but  as  neat  a  cottage 
as  any  within  sight  of  the  Crystal  Hills.  Ye  must 
know,  friends,  that  Hannah  and  I,  being  wedded  the 
last  week,  have  taken  up  the  search  of  the  Great  Car 
buncle,  because  we  shall  need  its  light  in  the  long 
winter  evenings ;  and  it  will  be  such  a  pretty  thing  to 
show  the  neighbors,  when  they  visit  us.  It  will  shine 
through  the  house,  so  that  we  may  pick  up  a  pin  in 
any  corner,  and  will  set  all  the  windows  a-glowing,  as 
if  there  were  a  great  fire  of  pine  knots  in  the  chimney. 
And  then  how  pleasant,  when  we  awake  in  the  night, 
to  be  able  to  see  one  another's  faces  !' 

There  was  a  general  smile  among  the  adventurers, 
at  the  simplicity  of  the  young  couple's  project,  in  regard 
to  this  wondrous  and  invaluable  stone,  with  which  the 
greatest  monarch  on  earth  might  have  been  proud  to 
adorn  his  palace.  Especially  the  man  with  spectacles, 
who  had  sneered  at  all  the  company  in  turn,  now 
twisted  his  visage  into  such  an  expression  of  ill-natured 
mirth,  that  Matthew  asked  him,  "rather  peevishly,  what 
he  himself  meant  to  do  with  the  Great  Carbuncle. 


224  THE      GREAT      CARBUNCLE, 

'  The  Great  Carbuncle  !'  answered  the  Cynic,  with 
ineffable  scorn.  '  Why,  you  blockhead,  there  is  no 
such  thing,  in  rerum  natura.  I  have  come  three  thou 
sand  miles,  and  am  resolved  to  set  my  foot  on  every 
peak  of  these  mountains,  and  poke  my  head  into  every 
chasm,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  demonstrating  to  the 
satisfaction  of  any  man,  one  whit  less  an  ass  than 
thyself,  that  the  Great  Carbuncle  is  all  a  humbug !' 

Vain  and  foolish  were  the  motives  that  had  brought 
most  of  the  adventurers  to  the  Crystal  Hills,  but  none 
so  vain,  so  foolish,  and  so  impious  too,  as  that  of  the 
scoffer  with  the  prodigious  spectacles.  He  was  one  of 
those  wretched  and  evil  men,  whose  yearnings  are 
downward  to  the  darkness,  instead  of  Heavenward,  and 
who,  could  they  but  extinguish  the  lights  which  God 
hath  kindled  for  us,  would  count  the  midnight  gloom 
their  chiefest  glory.  As  the  Cynic  spoke,  several  of 
the  party  were  startled  by  a  gleam  of  red  splendor,  that 
showed  the  huge  shapes  of  the  surrounding  mountains, 
and  the  rock-bestrewn  bed  of -the  turbulent  river,  with 
an  illumination  unlike  that  of  their  fire,  on  the  trunks 
and  black  boughs  of  the  forest  trees.  They  listened 
for  the  roll  of  thunder,  but  heard  nothing,  and  were 
glad  that  the  tempest  came  not  near  them.  The  stars, 
those  dial-points  of  Heaven,  now  warned  the  adventur 
ers  to  close  their  eyes  on  the  blazing  logs,  and  open 
them,  in  dreams,  to  the  glow  of  the  Great  Carbuncle. 

The  young  married  couple  had  taken  their  lodgings 
in  the  furthest  corner  of  the  wigwam,  and  were  separa- 


THE      GREAT      CARBUNCLE.  225 

4 

ted  from  the  rest  of  the  party  by  a  curtain  of  curiously 
woven  twigs,  such  as  might  have  hung,  in  deep  festoons 
around  the  bridal  bower  of  Eve.  The  modest  little 
wife  had  wrought  this  piece  of  tapestry,  while  the  other 
guests  were  talking.  She  and  her  husband  fell  asleep 
with  hands  tenderly  clasped,  and  awoke,  from  visions 
of  unearthly  radiance,  to  meet  the  more  blessed  light 
of  one  another's  eyes.  They  awoke  at  the  same  instant, 
and  with  one  happy  smile  beaming  over  their  two  faces, 
which  grew  brighter,  with  their  consciousness  of  the 
reality  of  life  arid  love.  But  no  sooner  did  she  recol 
lect  where  they  were,  than  the  bride  peeped  through 
the  interstices  of  the  leafy  curtain,  and  saw  that  the 
outer  room  of  the  hut  was  deserted. 

'  Up,  dear  Matthew  !'  cried  she,  in  haste.  '  The 
strange  folk  are  all  gone!  Up,  this  very  minute,  or 
we  shall  lose  the  Great  Carbuncle  !' 

In  truth,  so  little  did  these  poor  young  people  deserve 
the  mighty  prize  which  had  lured  them  thither,  that 
they  had  slept  peacefully  all  night,  and  till  the  summits 
of  the  hills  were  glittering  with  sunshine  ;  while  the 
other  adventurers  had  tossed  their  limbs  in  feverish 
wakefulness,  or  dreamed  of  climbing  precipices,  and 
set  off  to  realize  their  dreams  with  the  earliest  peep  of 
dawn.  But  Matthew  and  Hannah,  after  their  calm 
rest,  were  as  light  as  two  young  deer,  and  merely 
stopped  to  say  their  prayers,  and  wash  themselves  in  a 
cold  pool  of  the  Amonoosuck,  and  then  to  taste  a 
morsel  of  food,  ere  they  turned  their  faces  to  the  moun- 
T 


226  THE      GREAT      CARBUNCLE. 

• 

tain  side.  It  was  a  sweet  emblem  of  conjugal  affection, 
as  they  toiled  up  the  difficult  ascent,  gathering  strength 
from  the  mutual  aid  which  they  afforded.  After  sev 
eral  little  accidents,  such  as  a  torn  robe,  a  lost  shoe, 
and  the  entanglement  of  Hannah's  hair  in  a  bough, 
they  reached  the  upper  verge  of  the  forest,  and  were 
now  to  pursue  a  more  adventurous  course.  The  innu 
merable  trunks  and  heavy  foliage  of  the  trees  had 
hitherto  shut  in  their  thoughts,  which  now  shrank 
affrighted  from  the  region  of  wind,  and  cloud,  and 
naked  rocks,  and  desolate  sunshine,  that  rose  immeas 
urably  above  them.  They  gazed  back  at  the  obscure 
wilderness  which  they  had  traversed,  and  longed  to  be 
buried  again  in  its  depths,  rather  than  trust  themselves 
to  so  vast  and  visible  a  solitude. 

'  Shall  we  go  on  '?'  said  Matthew,  throwing  his  arm 
round  Hannah's  waist,  both  to  protect  her,  and  to  com 
fort  his  heart  by  drawing  her  close  to  it. 

But  the  little  bride,  simple  as  she  was,  had  a  woman's 
love  of  jewels,  and  could  not  forego  the  hope  of  possess 
ing  the  very  brightest  in  the  world,  in  spite  of  the 
perils  with  which  it  must  be  won. 

'  Let  us  climb  a  little  higher,'  whispered  she,  yet 
tremulously,  as  she  turned  her  face  upward  to  the 
lonely  sky. 

'  Come  then,'  said  Matthew,  mustering  his  manly 
courage,  and  drawing  her  along  with  him ;  for  she 
became  timid  again,  the  moment  that  he  grew  bold. 

And  upward,  accordingly,  went  the  pilgrims  of  the 


THE      GREAT      CARBUNCLE.  227 

Great  Carbuncle,  now  treading  upon  the  tops  and 
thickly  interwoven  branches  of  dwarf  pines,  which,  by 
the  growth  of  centuries,  though  mossy  with  age,  had 
barely  reached  three  feet  in  altitude.  Next,  they  came 
to  masses  and  fragments  of  naked  rock,  heaped  confus 
edly  together,  like  a  cairn  reared  by  giants,  in  memory 
of  a  giant  chief.  In  this  bleak  realm  of  upper  air, 
nothing  breathed,  nothing  grew ;  there  was  no  life  but 
what  was  concentred  in  their  two  hearts;  they  had  climb 
ed  so  high,  that  Nature  herself  seemed  no  longer  to 
keep  them  company.  She  lingered  beneath  them,  within 
the  verge  of  the  forest  trees,  and  sent  a  farewell  glance 
after  her  children,  as  they  strayed  where  her  own 
green  foot-prints  had  never  been.  But  soon  they  were 
to  be  hidden  from  her  eye.  Densely  and  dark,  the 
mists  began  to  gather  below,  casting  black  spots  of 
shadow  on  the  vast  landscape,  and  sailing  heavily  to 
one  centre,  as  if  the  loftiest  mountain-peak  had  sum 
moned  a  council  of  its  kindred  clouds.  Finally,  the 
vapors  welded  themselves,  as  it  were,  into  a  mass, 
presenting  the  appearance  of  a  pavement  over  which 
the  wanderers  might  have  trodden,  but  where  they 
would  vainly  have  sought  an  avenue  to  the  blessed 
earth  which  they  had  lost.  And  the  lovers  yearned  to 
behold  that  green  earth  again,  more  intensely,  alas ! 
than,  beneath  a  clouded  sky,  they  had  ever  desired  a 
glimpse  of  Heaven.  They  even  felt  it  a  relief  to  their 
desolation,  when  the  mists,  creeping  gradually  up  the 
mountain,  concealed  its  lonely  peak,  and  thus  anni- 


228  THE      GREAT      CARBUNCLE. 

hilated,  at  least  for  them,  the  whole  region  of  visible 
space.  But  they  drew  closer  together,  with  a  fond  and 
melancholy  gaze,  dreading  lest  the  universal  cloud 
should  snatch  them  from  each  other's  sight. 

Still,  perhaps,  they  would  have  been  resolute  to 
climb  as  far  and  as  high,  between  earth  and  heaven,  as 
they  could  find  foot-hold,  if  Hannah's  strength  had  not 
begun  to  fail,  and  with  that,  her  courage  also.  Her 
breath  grew  short.  She  refused  to  burthen  her  husband 
with  her  weight,  but  often  tottered  against  his  side, 
and  recovered  herself  each  time  by  a  feebler  effort. 
At  last,  she  sank  down  on  one  of  the  rocky  steps  of 
the  acclivity. 

'  We  are  lost,  dear  Matthew,'  said  she,  mournfully. 
'  We  shall  never  find  our  way  to  the  earth  again.  And, 
oh,  how  happy  we  might  have  been  in  our.  cottage  !' 

'  Dear  heart ! — we  will  yet  be  happy  there,'  answered 
Matthew.  *  Look !  In  this  direction,  the  sunshine 
penetrates  the  dismal  mist.  By  its  aid,  I  can  direct 
our  course  to  the  passage  of  the  Notch.  Let  us  go 
back,  love,  and  dream  no  more  of  the  Great  Carbuncle!' 

f  The  sun  cannot  be  yonder,'  said  Hannah,  with  des 
pondence.  '  By  this  time,  it  must  be  noon.  If  there 
could  ever  be  any  sunshine  here,  it  would  come  from 
above  our  heads.' 

1  But,  look !'  repeated  Matthew,  in  a  somewhat 
altered  tone.  '  It  is  brightening  every  moment.  If 
not  sunshine,  what  can  it  be?' 

Nor  could  the  young  bride  any  longer  deny,  that  a 


THE      GREAT      CARBUNCLE.  229 

radiance  was  breaking  through  the  mist,  and  changing 
its  dim  hue  to  a  dusky  red,  which  continually  grew 
more  vivid,  as  if  brilliant  particles  were  interfused  with 
the  gloom.  Now,  also,  the  cloud  began  to  roll  away 
from  the  mountain,  while,  as  it  heavily  withdrew,  one 
object  after  another  started  out  of  its  impenetrable 
obscurity  into  sight,  with  precisely  the  effect  of  a  new 
creation,  before  the  indistinctness  of  the  old  chaos  had 
been  completely  swallowed  up.  As  the  process  went 
on,  they  saw  the  gleaming  of  water  close  at  their  feet, 
and  found  themselves  on  the  very  border  of  a  mountain- 
lake,  deep,  bright,  clear,  and  calmly  beautiful,  spreading 
from  brim  to  brim  of  a  basin  that  had  been  scooped  out 
of  the  solid  rock.  A  ray  of  glory  flashed  across  its 
surface.  The  pilgrims  looked  whence  it  should  proceed, 
but  closed  their  eyes  with  a  thrill  of  awful  admiration, 
to  exclude  the  fervid  splendor  that  glowed  from  the 
brow  of  a  cliff,  impending  over  the  enchanted  lake. 
For  the  simple  pair  had  reached  that  lake  of  mystery, 
and  found  the  long-sought  shrine  of  the  Great  Car 
buncle  ! 

They  threw  their  arms  around  each  other,  and  trem 
bled  at  their  own  success  ;  for  as  the  legends  of  this 
wondrous  gem  rushed  thick  upon  their  memory,  they 
felt  themselves  marked  out  by  fate — and  the  conscious 
ness  was  fearful.  Often,  from  childhood  upward,  they 
had  seen  it  shining  like  a  distant  star.  And  now  that 
star  was  throwing  its  intensest  lustre  on  their  hearts. 
They  seemed  changed  to  one  another's  eyes,  in  the 


THE      GREAT      CARBUNCLE. 

red  brilliancy  that  flamed  upon  their  cheeks,  while  it 
lent  the  same  fire  to  the  lake,  the  rocks,  and  sky,  and 
to  the  mists  which  had  rolled  back  before  its  power. 
But,  with  their  next  glance,  they  beheld  an  object  that 
drew  their  attention  even  from  the  mighty  stone.  At 
the  base  of  the  cliff,  directly  beneath  the  Great  Car 
buncle,  appeared  the  figure  of  a  man,  with  his  arms 
extended  in  the  act  of  climbing,  and  his  face  turned 
upward,  as  if  to  drink  the  full  gush  of  splendor.  But 
he  stirred  not,  no  more  than  if  changed  to  marble. 

'  It  is  the  Seeker,'  whispered  Hannah,  convulsively 
grasping  her  husband's  arm.  '  Matthew,  he  is  dead  !' 

'  The  joy  of  success  has  killed  him,'  replied  Matthew, 
trembling  violently.  '  Or  perhaps  the  very  light  of  the 
Great  Carbuncle  was  death  !' 

'  The  Great  Carbuncle,'  cried  a  peevish  voice  behind 
them.  *  The  Great  Humbug !  If  you  have  found  it, 
prithee  point  it  out  to  me.' 

They  turned  their  heads,  and  there  was  the  Cynic, 
with  his  prodigious  spectacles  set  carefully  on  his  nose, 
staring  now  at  the  lake,  now  at  the  rocks,  now  at  the 
distant  masses  of  vapor,  now  right  at  the  Great  Carbun 
cle  itself,  yet  seemingly  as  unconscious  of  its  light, 
as  if  all  the  scattered  clouds  were  condensed  about 
his  person.  Though  its  radiance  actually  threw  the 
shadow  of  the  unbeliever  at  his  own  feet,  as  he  turned 
his  back  upon  the  glorious  jewel,  he  would  not  be  con 
vinced  that  there  was  the  least  glimmer  there. 

'Where  is  your  Great  Humbug?'  he  repeated.  'I 
challenge  you  to  make  me  see  it !' 


THE      GREAT      CARBUNCLE.  231 

'  There,'  said  Matthew,  incensed  at  such  perverse 
blindness,  and  turning  the  Cynic  round  towards  the 
illuminated  cliff.  '  Take  off  those  abominable  specta 
cles,  and  you  cannot  help  seeing  it !' 

Now  these  colored  spectacles  probably  darkened  the 
Cynic's  sight,  in  at  least  as  great  a  degree  as  the 
smoked  glasses  through  which  people  gaze  at  an 
eclipse.  With  resolute  bravado,  however,  he  snatched 
them  from  his  nose,  and  fixed  a  bold  stare  full  upon 
the  ruddy  blaze  of  the  Great  Carbuncle.  But,  scarcely 
had  he  encountered  it,  when,  with  a  deep,  shuddering 
groan,  he  dropt  his  head,  and  pressed  both  hands  across 
his  miserable  eyes.  Thenceforth  there  was,  in  very 
truth,  no  light  of  the  Great  Carbuncle,  nor  any  other 
light  on  earth,  nor  light  of  Heaven  itself,  for  the  poor 
Cynic.  So  long  accustomed  to  view  all  objects  through 
a  medium  that  deprived  them  of  every  glimpse  of 
brightness,  a  single  flash  of  so  glorious  a  phenomenon, 
striking  upon  his  naked  vision,  had  blinded  him  for 
ever. 

'  Matthew,'  said  Hannah,  clinging  to  him,  '  let  us  go 
hence  !' 

Matthew  saw  that  she  was  faint,  and  kneeling  down, 
supported  her  in  his  arms,  while  he  threw  some  of  the 
thrillingly-cold  water  of  the' enchanted  lake  upon  her 
face  and  bosom.  It  revived  her,  but  could  not  reno 
vate  her  courage. 

'  Yes,  dearest !'  cried  Matthew,  pressing  her  tremu 
lous  form  to  his  breast, — '  we  will  go  hence,  and  return 


232  THE      GREAT      CARBUNCLE. 

to  our  humble  cottage.  The  blessed  sunshine,  and  the 
quiet  moonlight,  shall  come  through  our  window.  We 
will  kindle  the  cheerful  glow  of  our  hearth,  at  eventide, 
and  be  happy  in  its  light.  But  never  again  will  we 
desire  more  light  than  all  the  world  may  share  with 
us.' 

'  No/  said  his  bride, '  for  how  could  we  live  by  day, 
or  sleep  by  night,  in  this  awful  blaze  of  the  Great  Car 
buncle  !' 

Out  of  the  hollow  of  their  hands,  they  drank  each  a 
draught  from  the  lake,  which  presented  them  its 
waters  uncontaminated  by  an  earthly  lip.  Then,  lend 
ing  their  guidance  to  the  blinded  Cynic,  who  uttered 
not  a  word,  and  even  stifled  his  groans  in  his  own 
most  wretched  heart,  they  began  to  descend  the  moun 
tain.  Yet,  as  they  left  the  shore,  till  then  untrodden, 
of  the  Spirit's  lake,  they  threw  a  farewell  glance 
towards  the  cliff,  and  beheld  the  vapors  gathering 
in  dense  volumes,  through  which  the  gem  burned 
duskily. 

As  touching  the  other  pilgrims  of  the  Great  Carbun 
cle,  the  legend  goes  on  to  tell,  that  the  worshipful 
Master  Ichabod  Pigsnott  soon  gave  up  the  quest,  as  a 
desperate  speculation,  and  wisely  resolved  to  betake 
himself  again  to  his  warehouse,  near  the  town-dock,  in 
Boston.  But,  as  he  passed  through  the  Notch  of  the 
mountains,  a  war  party  of  Indians  captured  our  un 
lucky  merchant,  and  carried  him  to  Montreal,  there 
holding  him  in  bondage,  till,  by  the  payment  of  a 


THE      GREAT      CARBUNCLE.  233 

heavy  ransom,  he  had  wofully  subtracted  from  his 
hoard  of  pine-tree  shillings.  By  his  long  absence, 
moreover,  his  affairs  had  become  so  disordered,  that, 
for  the  rest  of  his  life,  instead  of  wallowing  in  silver, 
he  had  seldom  a  sixpence-worth  of  copper.  Doctor 
Cacaphodel,  the  alchymist,  returned  to  his  laboratory 
with  a  prodigious  fragment  of  granite,  which  he  ground 
to  powder,  dissolved  in  acids,  melted  in  the  crucible, 
and  burnt  with  the  blowpipe,  and  published  the  result 
of  his  experiments  in  one  of  the  heaviest  folios  of  the 
day.  And,  for  all  these  purposes,  the  gem  itself  could 
not  have  answered  better  than  the  granite.  The  poet, 
by  a  somewhat  similar  mistake,  made  prize  of  a  great 
piece  of  ice,  which  he  found  in  a  sunless  chasm  of  the 
mountains,  and  swore  that  it  corresponded,  in  all 
points,  with  his  idea  of  the  Great  Carbuncle.  The 
-critics  say,  that,  if  his  poetry  lacked  the  splendor  of 
the  gem,  it  retained  all  the  coldness  of  the  ice.  The 
Lord  de  Vere  went  back  to  his  ancestral  hall,  where 
he  contented  himself  with  a  wax-lighted  chandelier, 
and  filled,  in  due  course  of  time,  another  coffin  in  the 
ancestral  vault.  As  the  funeral  torches  gleamed  within 
that  dark  receptacle,  there  was  no  need  of  the  Great 
Carbuncle  to  shew  the  vanity  of  earthly  pomp. 

The  Cynic,  having  cast  aside  his  spectacles,  wander 
ed  about  the  world,  a  miserable  object,  and  was  punish 
ed  with  an  agonizing  desire  of  light,  for  the  wilful 
blindness  of  his  former  life.  The  whole  night  long, 
he  would  lift  his  splendor-blasted  orbs  to  the  moon 
and  stars ;  he  turned  his  face  eastward,  at  sunrise,  as 


234  THE      GREAT      CARBUNCLE. 

duly  as  a  Persian  idolater ;  he  made  a  pilgrimage  to 
Rome,  to  witness  the  magnificent  illumination  of  Saint 
Peter's  church  ;  and  finally  perished  in  the  great  fire 
of  London,  into  the  midst  of  which  he  had  thrust  him 
self,  with  the  desperate  idea  of  catching  one  feeble  ray 
from  the  blaze,  that  was  kindling  earth  and  heaven. 

Matthew  and  his  bride  spent  many  peaceful  years,  and 
were  fond  of  telling  the  legend  of  the  Great  Carbuncle. 
The  tale,  however,  towards  the  close  of  their  length 
ened  lives,  did  not  meet  with  the  full  credence  that 
had  been  accorded  to  it  by  those,  who  remembered 
the  ancient  lustre  of  the  gem.  For  it  is  affirmed,  that, 
from  the  hour  when  two  mortals  had  shown  themselves 
so  simply  wise,  as  to  reject  a  jewel  which  would  have 
dimmed  all  earthly  things,  its  splendor  waned.  When 
other  pilgrims  reached  the  cliff,  they  found  only  an 
opaque  stone,  with  particles  of  mica  glittering  on  its 
surface.  There  is  also  a  tradition  that,  as  the  youth 
ful  pair  departed,  the  gern  was  loosened  from  the  fore 
head  of  the  cliff,  and  fell  into  the  enchanted  lake,  and 
that,  at  noontide,  the  Seeker's  form  may  still  be  seen 
to  bend  over  its  quenchless  gleam. 

Some  few  believe  that  this  inestimable  stone  is 
blazing,  as  of  old,  and  say  that  they  have  caught  its 
radiance,  like  a  flash  of  summer  lightning,  far  down 
the  valley  of  the  Saco.  And  be  it  owned,  that,  many 
a  mile  from  the  Crystal  Hills,  I  saw  a  wondrous  light 
around  their  summits,  and  was  lured,  by  the  faith  of 
poesy,  to  be  the  latest  pilgrim  of  the  GREAT  CAR 
BUNCLE. 


THE  PROPHETIC  PICTURES. 


THE    PROPHETIC    PICTURES.* 


'  BUT  this  painter !'  cried  Walter  Ludlow,  with  ani 
mation.  '  He  not  only  excels  in  his  peculiar  art,  but 
possesses  vast  acquirements  in  all  other  learning  and 
science.  He  talks  Hebrew  with  Doctor  Mather,  and 
gives  lectures  in  anatomy  to  Doctor  Boylston.  In  a 
word,  he  will  meet  the  best  instructed  man  among  us, 
on  his  own  ground.  Moreover,  he  is  a  polished  gentle 
man — a  citizen  of  the  world — yes,  a  true  cosmopolite ; 
for  he  will  speak  like  a  native  of  each  clime  and  coun 
try  on  the  globe,  except  our  own  forests,  whither  he  is 
now  going.  Nor  is  all  this  what  I  most  admire  in 
him.' 

'  Indeed !'  said  Elinor,  who  had  listened  with  a 
woman's  interest  to  the  description  of  such  a  man. 
1  Yet  this  is  admirable  enough.' 

*  This  story  was  suggested  by  an  anecdote  of  Stuart,  related  in  Dunlap's 
History  of  the  Arts  of  Design— a  most  entertaining  book  to  the  general 
reader,  and  a  deeply  interesting  one,  we  should  think,  to  the  artist. 


238  THE      PROPHETIC      PICTURES. 

'  Surely  it  is,'  replied  her  lover, '  but  far  less  so  than 
his  natural  gift  of  adapting  himself  to  every  variety  of 
character,  insomuch  that  all  men — and  women  too, 
Elinor — shall  find  a  mirror  of  themselves  in  this  won 
derful  painter.  But  the  greatest  wonder  is  yet  to  be 
told.5 

*  Nay,  if  he  have  more  wonderful  attributes  than 
these,'  said  Elinor,  laughing,  '  Boston  is  a  perilous 
abode  for  the  poor  gentleman.  Are  you  telling  me  of 
a  painter,  or  a  wizard  ?' 

'  In  truth,'  answered  he,  '  that  question  might  be 
asked  much  more  seriously  than  you  suppose.  They 
say  that  he  paints  not  merely  a  man's  features,  but  his 
mind  and  heart.  He  catches  the  secret  sentiments 
and  passions,  and  throws  them  upon  the  canvas,  like 
sunshine — or  perhaps,  in  the  portraits  of  dark-souled 
men,  like  a  gleam  of  infernal  fire.  It  is  an  awful  gift,' 
added  Walter,  lowering  his  voice  from  its  tone  of  enthu 
siasm.  '  I  shall  be  almost  afraid  to  sit  to  him.' 

'  Walter,  are  you  in  earnest  ?'  exclaimed  Elinor. 

'  For  Heaven's  sake,  dearest  Elinor,  do  not  let  him 
paint  the  look  which  you  now  wear,'-  said  her  lover, 
smiling,  though  rather  perplexed.  '  There  :  it  is  pass 
ing  away  now,  but  when  you  spoke,  you  seemed  fright 
ened  to  death,  and  very  sad  besides.  What  were  you 
thinking  of?' 

'  Nothing;  nothing,'  answered  Elinor,  hastily.  '  You 
paint  my  face  with  your  own  fantasies.  Well,  come  for 
me  tomorrow,  and  we  will  visit  this  wonderful  artist.' 


THE      PEOPHETIC      PICTURES.  239 

But  when  the  young  man  had  departed,  it  cannot  be 
denied  that  a  remarkable  expression  was  again  visible 
on  the  fair  and  youthful  face  of  his  mistress.  It  was  a 
sad  and  anxious  look,  little  in  accordance  with  what 
should  have  been  the  feelings  of  a  maiden  on  the  eve 
of  wedlock.  Yet  Walter  Ludlow  was  the  chosen  of 
her  heart. 

'  A  look  I'  said  Elinor  to  herself.  '  No  wonder  that 
it  startled  him,  if  it  expressed  what  I  sometimes  feel. 
I  know,  by  my  own  experience,  how  frightful  a  look 
may  be.  But  it  was  all  fancy,  I  thought  nothing  of  it 
at  the  time — I  have  seen  nothing  of  it  since — I  did 
but  dream  it.3 

And  she  busied  herself  about  the  embroidery  of  a 
ruff,  in  which  she  meant  that  her  portrait  should  be 
taken. 

The  painter,  of  whom  they  had  been  speaking,  was 
not  one  of  those  native  artists,  who  at  a  later  period 
than  this,  borrowed  their  colors  from  the  Indians,  and 
manufactured  their  pencils  of  the  furs  of  wild  beasts. 
Perhaps,  if  he  could  have  revoked  his  life  and  pre-ar 
ranged  his  destiny,  he  might  have  chosen  to  belong  to 
that  school  without  a  master,  in  the  hope  of  being  at 
least  original,  since  there  were  no  works  of  art  to 
imitate,  nor  rules  to  follow.  But  he  had  been  born 
and  educated  in  Europe.  People  said,  that  he  had 
studied  the  grandeur  or  beauty  of  conception,  and  every 
touch  of  the  master-hand,  in  all  the  most  famous  pic 
tures,  in  cabinets  and  galleries,  and  on  the  walls  of 


240  THE      PROPHETIC      PICTURES. 

churches,  till  there  was  nothing  more  for  his  powerful 
mind  to  learn.  Art  could  add  nothing  to  its  lessons, 
but  Nature  might.  He  had  therefore  visited  a  world, 
whither  none  of  his  professional  brethren  had  preceded 
him,  to  feast  his  eyes  on  visible  images,  that  were  noble 
and  picturesque,  yet  had  never  been  transferred  to 
canvas.  America  was  too  poor  to  afford  other  tempt 
ations  to  an  artist  of  eminence,  though  many  of  the 
colonial  gentry,  on  the  painter's  arrival,  had  expressed 
a  wish  to  transmit  their  lineaments  to  posterity,  by 
means  of  his  skill.  Whenever  such  proposals  were 
made,  he  fixed  his  piercing  eyes  on  the  applicant,  and 
seemed  to  look  him  through  and  through.  If  he 
beheld  a  sleek  and  comfortable  visage,  though  there 
were  a  gold-laced  coat  to  adorn  the  picture,  and  golden 
guineas  to  pay  for  it,  he  civilly  rejected  the  task  and 
the  reward.  But  if  the  face  were  the  index  of 'any 
thing  uncommon,  in  thought,  sentiment,  or  experience ; 
or  if  he  met  a  beggar  in  the  street,  with  a  white  beard 
and  a  furrowed  brow ;  or  if,  sometimes  a  child  hap 
pened  to  look  up  and  smile :  he  would  exhaust  all  the 
art  on  them,  that  he  denied  to  wealth. 

Pictorial  skill  being  so  rare  in  the  colonies,  the 
painter  became  an  object  of  general  curiosity.  If  few 
or  none  could  appreciate  the  technical  merit  of  his 
productions,  yet  there  were  points,  in  regard  to  which 
the  opinion  of  the  crowd  was  as  valuable  as  the  refined 
judgment  of  the  amateur.  He  watched  the  effect  that 
each  picture  produced  on  such  untutored  beholders, 


THE      PROPHETIC     PICTURES.  241 

and  derived  profit  from  their  remarks,  while  they  would 
as  soon  have  thought  of  instructing  Nature  herself,  as 
him  who  seemed  to  rival  her.  Their  admiration,  it 
must  be  owned,  was  tinctured  with  the  prejudices  of 
the  age  and  country.  Some  deemed  it  an  offence 
against  the  Mosaic  law,  and  even  a  presumptuous  mock 
ery  of  the  Creator,  to  bring  into  existence  such  lively 
images  of  his  creatures.  Others,  frightened  at  the  art 
which  could  raise  phantoms  at  will,  and  keep  the  form 
of  the  dead  among  the  living,  were  inclined  to  consider 
the  painter  as  a  magician,  or  perhaps  the  famous  Black 
Man  of  old  witch-times,  plotting  mischief  in  a  new 
guise.  These  foolish  fancies  were  more  than  half 
believed,  among  the  mob.  Even  in  superior  circles, 
his  character  was  invested  with  a  vague  awe,  partly 
rising  like  smoke-wreaths  from  the  popular  supersti 
tions,  but  chiefly  caused  by  the  varied  knowledge  and 
talents  which  he  made  subservient  to  his  profession. 

Being  on  the  eve  of  marriage,  Walter  Ludlow  and 
Elinor  were  eager  to  obtain  their  portraits,  as  the 
first  of  what,  they  doubtless  hoped,  would  be  a  long 
series  of  family  pictures.  The  day  after  the  conversa 
tion  above  recorded,  they  visited  the  painter's  rooms. 
A  servant  ushered  them  into  an  apartment,  where, 
though  the  artist  himself  was  not  visible,  there  were 
personages,  whom  they  could  hardly  forbear  greeting 
with  reverence.  They  knew,  indeed,  that  the  whole 
assembly  were  but  pictures,  yet  felt  it  impossible  to 
separate  the  idea  of  life  and  intellect  from  such  striking 


242  THE      PROPHETIC     PICTURES. 

counterfeits.  Several  of  the  portraits  were  known  to 
them,  either  as  distinguished  characters  of  the  day,  or 
their  private  acquaintances.  There  was  Governor 
Burnett,  looking  as  if  he  had  just  received  an  undutiful 
communication  from  the  House  of  Representatives,  and 
were  inditing  a  most  sharp  response.  Mr.  Cooke  hung 
beside  the  ruler  whom  he  opposed,  sturdy,  and  some 
what  puritanical,  as  befitted  a  popular  leader.  The 
ancient  lady  of  Sir  William  Phipps  eyed  them  from 
the  wall,  in  ruff  and  farthingale,  an  imperious  old 
dame,  not  unsuspected  of  witchcraft.  John  Winslow, 
then  a  very  young  man,  wore  the  expression  of  warlike 
enterprise,  which  long  afterwards  made  him  a  distin 
guished  general.  Their  personal  friends  were  recog 
nised  at  a  glance.  In  most  of  the  pictures,  the  whole 
mind  and  character  were  brought  out  on  the  counte 
nance,  and  concentrated  into  a  single  look,  so  that,  to 
speak  paradoxically,  the  originals  hardly  resembled 
themselves  so  strikingly  as  the  portraits  did. 

Among  these  modern  worthies,  there  were  two  old 
bearded  Saints,  who  had  almost  vanished  into  the 
darkening  canvas.  There  was  also  a  pale,  but  unfad- 
ed  Madonna,  who  had  perhaps  been  worshiped  in 
Rome,  and  now  regarded  the  lovers  with  such  a  mild 
and  holy  look,  that  they  longed  to  worship  too. 

*  How  singular  a  thought,'  observed  Walter  Ludlow, 
*  that  this  beautiful  face  has  been  beautiful  for  above 
two  hundred  years  !  Oh,  if  all  beauty  would  endure  so 
well !  Do  you  not  envy  her,  Elinor  ? ' 


THE      PROPHETIC      PICTURES.  243 

'  If  Earth  were  Heaven,  I  might/  she  replied.  '  But 
where  all  things  fade,  how  miserable  to  be  the  one  that 
could  not  fade  !' 

'  This  dark  old  St.  Peter  has  a  fierce  and  ugly 
scowl,  saint  though  he  be,'  continued  Walter.  '  He 
troubles  me.  But  the  Virgin  looks  kindly  at  us.' 

1  Yes ;  but  very  sorrowfully,  methinks,'  said  Elinor. 

The  easel  stood  beneath  these  three  old  pictures, 
sustaining  one  that  had  been  recently  commenced. 
After  a  little  inspection,  they  began  to  recognise  the 
features  of  their  own  minister,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Colman, 
growing  into  shape  and  life,  as  it  were,  out  of  a  cloud. 

'  Kind  old  man  !'  exclaimed  Elinor.  '  He  gazes  at 
me,  as  if  he  were  about  to  utter  a  word  of  paternal 
advice.' 

c  And  at  me,'  said  Walter,  *  as  if  he  were  about  to 
shake  his  head  and  rebuke  me,  for  some  suspected 
iniquity.  But  so  does  the  original.  I  shall  never  feel 
quite  comfortable  under  his  eye,  till  we  stand  before 
him  to  be  married.' 

They  now  heard  a  footstep  on  the  floor,  and  turn 
ing,  beheld  the  painter,  who  had  been  some  moments  in 
the  room,  and  had  listened  to  a  few  of  their  remarks. 
He  was  a  middle-aged  man,  with  a  countenance  well 
worthy  of  his  own  pencil.  Indeed,  by  the  picturesque, 
though  careless  arrangement  of  his  rich  dress,  and, 
perhaps,  because  his  soul  dwelt  always  among  painted 
shapes,  he  looked  somewhat  like  a  portrait  himself. 
His  visiters  were  sensible  of  a  kindred  between  the 


244  THE     PROPHETIC      PICTURES. 

artist  and  his  works,  and  felt  as  if  one  of  the  pictures 
had  stept  from  the  canvas  to  salute  them. 

Walter  Ludlow,  who  was  slightly  known  to  the 
painter,  explained  the  object  of  their  visit.  While  he 
spoke,  a  sunbeam  was  falling  athwart  his  figure  and 
Elinor's,  with  so  happy  an  effect,  that  they  also  seem 
ed  living  pictures  of  youth  and  beauty,  gladdened  by 
bright  fortune.  The  artist  was  evidently  struck. 

'  My.  easel  is  occupied  for  several  ensuing  days,  and 
my  stay  in  Boston  must  be  brief,'  said  he,  thought 
fully  ;  then  after  an  observant  glance,  he  added  :  '  but 
your  wishes  shall  be  gratified,  though  I  disappoint  the 
chief  Justice  and  Madame  Oliver.  I  must  not  lose 
this  opportunity,  for  the  sake  of  painting  a  few  ells  of 
broadcloth  and  brocade.' 

The  painter  expressed  a  desire  to  introduce  both 
their  portraits  into  one  picture,  and  represent  them 
engaged  in  some  appropriate  action.  This  plan  would 
have  delighted  the  lovers,  but  was  necessarily  rejected, 
because  so  large  a  space  of  canvas  would  have  been 
unfit  for  the  room  which  it  was  intended  to  decorate. 
Two  half-length  portraits  were  therefore  fixed  upon. 
After  they  had  taken  leave,  Walter  Ludlow  asked 
Elinor,  with  a  smile,  whether  she  knew  what  an  influ 
ence  over  their  fates  the  painter  was  about  to  acquire. 

'  The  old  women  of  Boston  affirm,'  continued  he, 
'•that  after  he  has  once  got  possession  of  a  person's 
face  and  figure,  he  may  paint  him  in  any  act  or  situa 
tion  whatever — and  the  picture  will  be  prophetic.  Do 
you  believe  it  V 


THE      PROPHETIC      PICTURES.  245 

'  Not  quite,'  said  Elinor,  smiling.  *  Yet  if  he  has 
such  magic,  there  is  something  so  gentle  in  his  man 
ner,  that  I  am  sure  he  will  use  it  well.' 

It  was  the  painter's  choice  to  proceed  with  both  the 
portraits  at  the  same  time,  assigning  as  a  reason,  in  the 
mystical  language  which  he  sometimes  used,  that  the 
faces  threw  light  upon  each  other.  Accordingly,  he 
gave  now  a  touch  to  Walter,  and  now  to  Elinor,  and 
the  features  of  one  and  the  other  began  to  start  forth 
so  vividly,  that  it  appeared  as  if  his  triumphant  art 
would  actually  disengage  them  from  the  canvas.  Amid 
the  rich  light  and  deep  shade,  they  beheld  their  phantom 
selves.  But,  though  the  likeness  promised  to  be  per 
fect,  they  were  not  quite  satisfied  with  the  expression  ; 
it  seemed  more  vague  than  in  most  of  the  painter's 
works.  He,  however,  was  satisfied  with  the  prospect 
of  success,  and  being  much  interested  in  the  lovers, 
employed  his  leisure  moments,  unknown  to  them,  in 
making  a  crayon  sketch  of  their  two  figures.  During 
their  sittings,  he  engaged  them  in  conversation,  and 
kindled  up  their  faces  with  characteristic  traits,  which, 
though  continually  varying,  it  was  his  purpose  to 
combine  and  fix.  At  length  he  announced,  that  at 
their  next  visit,  both  the  portraits  would  be  ready  for 
delivery. 

'  If  my  pencil  will  but  be  true  to  my  conception,  in 
the  few  last  touches  which  I  meditate,'  observed  he, 
'  these  two  pictures  will  be  my  very  best  performances. 
Seldom,  indeed,  has  an  artist  such  subjects.' 


246  THE      PROPHETIC      PICTURES. 

While  speaking,  he  still  bent  his  penetrative  eye 
upon  them,  nor  withdrew  it  till  they  had  reached  the 
bottom  of  the  stairs. 

Nothing,  in  the  whole  circle  of  human  vanities, 
takes  stronger  hold  of  the  imagination,  than  this  affair 
of  having  a  portrait  painted.  Yet  why  should  it  be  so  ? 
The  looking-glass,  the  polished  globes  of  the  andirons, 
the  mirror-like  water,  and  all  other  reflecting  surfaces, 
continually  present  us  with  portraits,  or  rather  ghosts 
of  ourselves,  which  we  glance  at,  and  straightway 
forget  them.  But  we  forget  them,  only  because  they 
vanish.  It  is  the  idea  of  duration — of  earthly  im 
mortality — that  gives  such  a  mysterious  interest  to  our 
own  portraits.  Walter  and  Elinor  were  not  insensible 
to  this  feeling,  and  hastened  to  the  painter's  rooms, 
punctually  at  the  appointed  hour,  to  meet  those  pictured 
shapes,  which  were  to  be  their  representatives  with 
posterity.  The  sunshine  flashed  after  them  into  the 
apartment,  but  left  it  somewhat  gloomy,  as  they  closed 
the  door. 

Their  eyes  were  immediately  attracted  to  their 
portraits,  which  rested  against  the  farthest  wall  of  the 
room.  At  the  first  glance,  through  the  dim  light  and 
the  distance,  seeing  themselves  in  precisely  their  natural 
attitudes,  and  with  all  the  air  that  they  recognised 
so  well,  they  uttered  a  simultaneous  exclamation  of 
delight. 

'  There  we  stand,'  cried  Walter,  enthusiastically, 
'  fixed  in  sunshine  for  ever  !  No  dark  passions  can  gather 
on  our  faces  !' 


THE      PROPHETIC      PICTURES.  247 

'  No,'  said  Elinor,  more  calmly ;  '  no  dreary  change 
can  sadden  us.' 

This  was  said  while  they  were  approaching,  and  had 
yet  gained  only  an  imperfect  view  of  the  pictures.  The 
painter,  after  saluting  them,  busied  himself  at  a  table 
in  completing  a  crayon  sketch,  leaving  his  visiters  to 
form  their  own  judgment  as  to  his  perfected  labors. 
At  intervals,  he  sent  a  glance  from  beneath  his  deep 
eyebrows,  watching  their  countenances  in  profile,  with 
his  pencil  suspended  over  the  sketch.  They  had  now 
stood  some  moments,  each  in  front  of  the  other's 
picture,  contemplating  it  with  entranced  attention, 
but  without  uttering  a  word.  At  length,  Walter  step 
ped  forward — then  back — viewing  Elinor's  portrait  in 
various  lights,  and  finally  spoke. 

'  Is  there  not  a  change  ?'  said  he,  in  a  doubtful  and 
meditative  tone.  '  Yes ;  the  perception  of  it  grows 
more  vivid,  the  longer  I  look.  It  is  certainly  the 
same  picture  that  I  saw  yesterday  ;  the  dress — the 
features — all  are  the  same ;  and  yet  something  is 
altered.' 

'  Is  then  the  picture  less  like  than  it  was  yesterday  ?' 
inquired  the  painter,  now  drawing  near,  with  irrepressi 
ble  interest. 

'  The  features  are  perfect  Elinor,'  answered  Walter  ; 
*'  and,  at  the  first  glance,  the  expression  seemed  also 
her's.  But,  I  could  fancy  tljat  the  portrait  has  changed 
countenance,  while  I  have  been  looking  at  it.  The 
eyes  are  fixed  on  mine  with  a  strangely  sad  and  anxious 


248  THE      PROPHETIC      PICTURES. 

expression.  Nay,  it  is  grief  ai:  3  terror !  Is  this  like 
Elinor?' 

*  Compare  the  living  face  with  the  pictured  one,3 
said  the  painter. 

Walter  glanced  sidelong  at  his  mistress,  and  started. 
Motionless  and  absorbed — fascinated,  as  it  were — in 
contemplation  of  Walter's  portrait,  Elinor's  face  had 
assumed  precisely  the  expression  of  which  he  had  just 
been  complaining.  Had  she  practised  for  whole  hours 
before  a  mirror,  she  could  not  have  caught  the  look  so 
successfully.  Had  the  picture  itself  been  a  mirror,  it 
could  not  have  thrown  back  her  present  aspect,  with 
stronger  and  more  melancholy  truth.  She  appeared 
quite  unconscious  of  the  dialogue  between  the  artist 
and  her  lover. 

'  Elinor,'  exclaimed  Walter,  in  amazement,  '  what 
change  has  come  over  you?' 

She  did  not  hear  him,  nor  desist  from  her  fixed  gaze, 
till  he  seized  her  hand,  and  thus  attracted  her  notice; 
then,  with  a  sudden  tremor,  she  looked  from  the  picture 
to  the  face  of  the  original. 

'  Do  you  see  no  change  in  your  portrait  ?'  asked 
she. 

'In  mine? — None!'  replied  Walter,  examining  it. 
'  But  let  me  see !  Yes  ;  there  is  a  slight  change — an 
improvement,  I  think,  in  the  picture,  though  none  in 
the  likeness.  It  has  a  livelier  expression  than  yester 
day,  as  if  some  bright  thought  were  flashing  from  the 
eyes,  and  about  to  be  uttered  from  the  lips.  Now  that 
I  have  caught  the  look,  it  becomes  very  decided.' 


THE   PROPHETIC   PICTURES. 


240 


While  he  was  intent  on  these  observations,  Elinor 
turned  to  the  painter.  She  regarded  him  with  grief 
and  awe,  and  felt  that  he  repaid  her  with  sympathy 
and  commiseration,  though  wherefore,  she  could  but 
vaguely  guess. 

'  That  look  !'  whispered  she,  and  shuddered.  *  How 
came  it  there  ?' 

'  Madam,'  said  the  painter,  sadly,  taking  her  hand, 
and  leading  her  apart,  *  in  both  these  pictures,  I  have 
painted  what  I  saw.  The  artist — the  true  artist — must 
look  beneath  the  exterior.  It  is  his  gift — his  proudest, 
but  often  a  melancholy  one — to  see  the  inmost  soul, 
and,  by  a  power  indefinable  even  to  himself,  to  make 
it  glow  or  darken  upon  the  canvas,  in  glances  that 
express  the  thought  and  sentiment  of  years.  Would 
that  I  might  convince  myself  of  error  in  the  present 
instance  !' 

They  had  now  approached  the  table,  on  which  were 
heads  in  chalk,  hands  almost  as  expressive  as  ordinary 
faces,  ivied  church-towers,  thatched  cottages,  old  thun 
der-stricken  trees,  oriental  and  antique  costume,  and  all 
such  picturesque  vagaries  of  an  artist's  idle  moments. 
Turning  them  over,  with  seeming  carelessness,  a 
crayon  sketch  of  two  figures  was  disclosed. 

'  If  I  have   failed,'  continued   he  ; — '  if  your   heart 

does  not  see  itself  reflected  in  your  own  portrait — if 

you  have  no  secret  cause  to  trust  my  delineation  of 

the  other — it  is  not  yet  too  late  to  alter  them.    I  might 

w 


250  THE      PROPHETIC      PICTURES. 

change  the  action  of  these  figures  too.  But  would  it 
influence  the  event  T 

He  directed  her  notice  to  the  sketch.  A  thrill  ran 
through  Elinor's  frame  ;  a  shriek  was  upon  her  lips ; 
but  she  stifled  it,  with  the  self-command  that  becomes 
habitual  to  all,  who  hide  thoughts  of  fear  and  anguish 
within  their  bosoms.  Turning  from  the  table,  she 
perceived  that  Walter  had  advanced  near  enough  to 
have  seen  the  sketch,  though  she  could  "not  determine 
whether  it  had  caught  his  eye. 

'  We  will  not  have  the  pictures  altered,'  said  she, 
hastily.  '  If  mine  is  sad,  I  shall  but  look  the  gayer  for 
the  contrast.' 

'  Be  it  so,'  answered  the  painter,  bowing.  '  May 
your  griefs  be  such  fanciful  ones,  that  only  your  pic 
ture  may  mourn  for  them  !  For  your  joysr— may  they 
be  true  and  deep,  and  paint  themselves  upon  this 
lovely  face,  till  it  quite  belie  my  art !' 

After  the  marriage  of  Walter  and  Elinor,  the  pic 
tures  formed  the  two  most  splendid  ornaments  of  their 
abode.  They  hung  side  by  side,  separated  by  a  narrow 
panel,  appearing  to  eye  each  other  constantly,  yet 
always  returning  the  gaze  of  the  spectator.  Travelled 
gentlemen,  who  professed  a  knowledge  of  such  sub 
jects,  reckoned  these  among  the  most  admirable  speci 
mens  of  modern  portraiture ;  while  common  observers 
compared  them  with  the  originals,  feature  by  feature, 
and  were  rapturous  in  praise  of  the  likeness.  But,  it 
was  on  a  third  class, — neither  travelled  connoisseurs 


THE      PROPHETIC      PICTURES.  251 

nor  common  observers,   but  people  of  natural  sensi 
bility — that  the  pictures  wrought  their  strongest  effect. 
Such  persons  might  gaze  carelessly  at  first,  but,  be 
coming  interested,   would  return  day  after   day,  and 
study  these  painted  faces  like  the  pages  of  a  mystic 
volume.       Walter    Ludlow's   portrait    attracted    their 
earliest  notice.     In  the   absence   of  himself  and  his 
bride,  they  sometimes  disputed  as  to  the    expression 
which  the  painter   had   intended  to  throw  upon  the 
features ;   all  agreeing  that  there  was  a  look  of  earnest 
import,  though  no  two  explained  it  alike.     There  was 
less  diversity  of  opinion  in  regard  to  Elinor's  picture. 
They  differed,  indeed,  in  their  attempts  to  estimate  the 
nature  and  depth  of  the  gloom  that  dwelt  upon  her 
face,  but  agreed  that  it  was  gloom,  and  alien  from  the 
natural  temperament  of  their  youthful  friend.     A  cer 
tain  fanciful  person  announced,  as  the  result  of  much 
scrutiny,  that  both  these  pictures  were  parts  of  one 
design,  and  that  the  melancholy  strength  of  feeling,  in 
Elinor's  countenance,  bore  reference  to  the  more  vivid 
emotion,  or,  as  he  termed  it,  the  wild  passion,  in  that 
of  Walter.     Though   unskilled   in  the    art,   he   even 
began  a  sketch,  in  which  the  action  of  the  two  figures 
was  to  correspond  with  their  mutual  expression. 

It  was  whispered  among  friends,  that,  day  by  day, 
Elinor's  face  was  assuming  a  deeper  shade  of  pensive- 
ness,  which  threatened  soon  to  render  her  too  true  a 
counterpart  of  her  melancholy  picture.  Walter,  on 
the  other  hand,  instead  of  acquiring  the  vivid  look 


252  THE      PROPHETIC      PICTURES. 

which  the  painter  had  given  him  on  the  canvas,  be 
came  reserved  and  downcast,  with  no  outward  flashes 
of  emotion,  however  it  might  be  smouldering  within. 
In  course  of  time,  Elinor  hung  a  gorgeous  curtain  of 
purple  silk,  wrought  with  flowers,  and  fringed  with 
heavy  golden  tassels,  before  the  pictures,  under  pre 
tence  that  the  dust  would  tarnish  their  hues,  or  the 
light  dim  them.  It  was  enough.  Her  visiters  felt,  that 
the  massive  folds  of  the  silk  must  never  be  withdrawn, 
nor  the  portraits  mentioned  in  her  presence. 

Time  wore  on  ;  and  the  painter  came  again.  He 
had  been  far  enough  to  the  north  to  see  the  silver 
cascade  of  the  Crystal  Hills,  and  to  look  over  the  vast 
round  of  cloud  and  forest,  from  the  summit  of  New 
England's  loftiest  mountain.  But  he  did  not  profane 
that  scene  by  the  mockery  of  his  art.  He  had  also  lain 
in  a  canoe  on  the  bosom  of  Lake  George,  making  his 
soul  the  mirror  of  its  loveliness  and  grandeur,  till  not 
a  picture  in  the  Vatican  was  more  vivid  than  his  recol 
lection.  He  had  gone  with  the  Indian  hunters  to 
Niagara,  and  there,  again,  had  flung  his  hopeless  pen 
cil  down  the  precipice,  feeling  that  he  could  as  soon 
paint  the  roar,  as  aught  else  that  goes  to  make  up  the 
wondrous  cataract.  In  truth,  it  was  seldom  his  impulse 
to  copy  natural  scenery,  except  as  a  frame-work  for 
the  delineations  of  the  human  form  and  face,  instinct 
with  thought,  passion,  or  suffering.  With  store  of 
such,  his  adventurous  ramble  had  enriched  him ;  the 
stern  dignity  of  Indian  chiefs ;  the  dusky  loveliness 


THE      PROPHETIC      PICTURES.  253 

,      ;'.:i"  /'"'  'M. 

of  Indian  girls ;  the  domestic  life  of  wigwams ;   the 

stealthy  march  ;  the  battle  beneath  gloomy  pine-trees  ; 
the  frontier  fortress  with  its  garrison  ;  the  anomaly  of 
the  old  French  partisan,  bred  in  courts,  but  grown 
gray  in  shaggy  deserts ;  such  were  the  scenes  and 
portraits  that  he  had  sketched.  The  glow  of  perilous 
moments  ;  flashes  of  wild  feeling  ;  struggles  of  fierce 
power — love,  hate,  grief,  frenzy — in  a  word,  all  the 
worn-out  heart  of  the  old  earth,  had  been  revealed  to 
him  under  a  new  form.  His  portfolio  was  filled  with 
graphic  illustrations  of  the  volume  of  his  memory, 
which  genius  would  transmute  into  its  own  substance, 
and  imbue  with  immortality.  He  felt  that  the  deep 
wisdom  in  his  art,  which  he  had  sought  so  far,  was 
found. 

But,  amid  stern  or  lovely  nature,  in  the  perils  of  the 
forest,  or  its  overwhelming  peacefulness,  still  there 
had  been  two  phantoms,  the  companions  of  his  way. 
Like  all  other  men  around  whom  an  engrossing  pur 
pose  wreathes  itself,  he  was  insulated  from  the  mass  of 
human  kind.  He  had  no  aim — no  pleasure — no  sym 
pathies — but  what  were  ultimately  connected  with  his 
art.  Though  gentle  in  manner,  and  upright  in  intent 
and  action,  he  did  not  possess  kindly  feelings ;  his 
heart  was  cold ;  no  living  creature  could  be  brought 
near  enough  to  keep  him  warm.  For  these  two  beings, 
however,  he  had  felt,  in  its  greatest  intensity,  the  sort 
of  interest  which  always  allied  him  to  the  subjects  of 
his  pencil.  He  had  pried  into  their  souls  with  his 
w* 


254  THE      PROPHETIC      PICTURES. 

&Sii 

keenest  insight,  and  pictured  the  result  upon  their 
features,  with  his  utmost  skill,  so  as  barely  to  fall 
short  of  that  standard  which  no  genius  ever  reached, 
his  own  severe  conception.  He  had  caught  from  the 
duskiness  of  the  future — at  least,  so  he  fancied — a 
fearful  secret,  and  had  obscurely  revealed  it  on  the 
portraits.  So  much  of  himself — of  his  imagination 
and  all  other  powers — had  been  lavished  on  the  study 
of  Walter  and  Elinor,  that  he  almost  regarded  them  as 
creations  of  his  own,  like  the  thousands  with  which  he 
had  peopled  the  realms  of  Picture.  Therefore  did 
they  flit  through  the  twilight  of  the  woods,  hover  on 
the  mist  of  waterfalls,  look  forth  from  the  mirror  of 
the  lake,  nor  melt  away  in  the  noontide  sun.  They 
haunted  his  pictorial  fancy,  not  as  mockeries  of  life, 
nor  pale  goblins  of  the  dead,  but  in  the  guise  of  por 
traits,  each  with  the  unalterable  expression  which  his 
magic  had  evoked  from  the  caverns  of  the  soul.  He 
could  not  recross  the  Atlantic,  till  he  had  again  beheld 
the  originals  of  those  airy  pictures. 

'  Oh,  glorious  Art !'  thus  mused  the  enthusiastic 
painter,  as  he  trod  the  street.  '  Thou  art  the  image  of 
the  Creator's  own.  The  innumerable  forms,  that 
wander  in  nothingness,  start  into  being  at  thy  beck. 
The  dead  live  again.  Thou  recallest  them  to  their 
old  scenes,  and  givest  their  gray  shadows  the  lustre  of 
a  better  life,  at  once  earthly  and  immortal.  Thou 
snatchest  back  the  fleeting  moments  of  History.  With 
thee,  there  is  no  Past ;  for,  at  thy  touch,  all  that  is 


THE      PROPHETIC      PICTURES.  255 

great  becomes  for  ever  present ;  and  illustrious  men 
live  through  long  ages,  in  the  visible  performance  of 
the  very  deeds,  which  made  them  what  they  are.  Oh, 
potent  Art !  as  thou  br ingest  the  faintly  revealed  Past 
to  stand  in  that  narrow  strip  of  sunlight,  which  we  call 
Now,  canst  thou  summon  the  shrouded  Future  to  meet 
her  there  ?  Have  I  not  achieved  it !  Am  I  not  thy 
Prophet  V 

Thus,  with  a  proud,  yet  melancholy  fervor,  did  he 
almost  cry  aloud,  as  he  passed  through  the  toilsome 
street,  among  people  that  knew  not  of  his  reveries, 
nor  could  understand  nor  care  for  them.  It  is  not 
good  for  man  to  cherish  a  solitary  ambition.  Unless 
there  be  those  around  him,  by  whose  example  he  may 
regulate  himself,  his  thoughts,  desires,  and  hopes  will 
become  extravagant,  and  he  the  semblance,  perhaps 
the  reality,  of  a  madman.  Reading  other  bosoms, 
with  an  acuteness  almost  preternatural,  the  painter 
failed  to  see  the  disorder  of  his  own. 

1  And  this  should  be  the  house,'  said  he,  looking  up 
and  down  the  front,  before  he  knocked.  '  Heaven 
help  my  brains !  That  picture !  Methinks  it  will 
never  vanish.  Whether  I  look  at  the  windows  or  the 
door,  there  it  is  framed  within  them,  painted  strongly, 
and  glowing  in  the  richest  tints — the  faces  of  the 
portraits — the  figures  and  action  of  the  sketch  !' 

He  knocked. 

'  The  Portraits  !  Are  they  within  inquired  he, 
of  the  domestic ;  then  recollecting  himself — *  your 
master  and  mistress  !  Are  they  at  home?' 


THE   PROPHETIC   PICTURES. 


'  They  are,  sir,'  said  the  servant,  adding,  as  he 
noticed  that  picturesque  aspect  of  which  the  painter 
could  never  divest  himself, — '  and  the  Portraits  too  !' 

The  guest  was  admitted  into  a  parlor,  communica 
ting  by  a  central  door,  with  an  interior  room  of  the 
same  size.  As  the  first  apartment  was  empty,  he 
passed  to  the  entrance  of  the  second,  within  which, 
his  eyes  were  greeted  by  those  living  personages,  as 
well  as  their  pictured  representatives,  who  had  long 
been  the  objects  of  so  singular  an  interest.  He  in 
voluntarily  paused  on  the  threshold. 

They  had  not  perceived  his  approach.  Walter  and 
Elinor  were  standing  before  the  portraits,  whence  the 
former  had  just  flung  back  the  rich  and  voluminous 
folds  of  the  silken  curtain,  holding  its  golden  tassel 
with  one  hand,  while  the  other  grasped  that  of  his 
bride.  The  pictures,  concealed  for  months,  gleamed 
forth  again  in  undiminished  splendor,  appearing  to 
throw  a  sombre  light  across  the  room,  rather  than  to 
be  disclosed  by  a  borrowed  radiance.  That  of  Elinor 
had  been  almost  prophetic.  A  pensiveness,  and  next 
a  gentle  sorrow,  had  successively  dwelt  upon  her  coun 
tenance,  deepening,  with  the  lapse  of  time,  into  a  quiet 
anguish.  A  mixture  of  affright  would  now  have  made 
it  the  very  expression  of  the  portrait.  Walter's  face 
was  moody  and  dull,  or  animated  only  by  fitful  flashes, 
which  left  a  heavier  darkness  for  their  momentary 
illumination.  He  looked  from  Elinor  to  her  portrait, 
and  thence  to  his  own,  in  the  contemplation  of  which 
he  finally  stood  absorbed. 


THE      PROPHETIC      PICTURES.  257 

•    -   •',  ~:\:'-  ' 

The  painter  seemed  to  hear  the  step  of  Destiny 
approaching  behind  him,  on  its  progress  towards  its 
victims.  A  strange  thought  darted  into  his  mind. 
Was  not  his  own  the  form  in  which  that  Destiny  had 
embodied  itself,  and  he  a  chief  agent  of  the  coming 
evil  which  he  had  foreshadowed  ? 

Still,  Walter  remained  silent  before  the  picture,  com 
muning  with  it,  as  with  his  own  heart,  and  abandoning 
himself  to  the  spell  of  evil  influence,  that  the  painter 
had  cast  upon  the  features.  Gradually  his  eyes  kin 
dled  ;  while  as  Elinor  watched  the  increasing  wildness 
of  his  face,  her  own  assumed  a  look  of  terror;  and 
when  at  last,  he  turned  upon  her,  the  resemblance  of 
both  to  their  portraits  was  complete. 

1  Our  fate  is  upon  us  V    howled  Walter.     '  Die  !' 

Drawing  a  knife,  he  sustained  her,  as  she  was  sink 
ing  to  the  ground,  and  aimed  it  at  her  bosom.  In  the 
action,  and  in  the  look  and  attitude  of  each,  the  painter 
beheld  the  figures  of  his  sketch.  The  picture,  with  all 
its  tremendous  coloring,  was  finished. 

'  Hold,  madman !'  cried  he  sternly. 

He  had  advanced  from  the  door,  and  interposed  him 
self  between  the  wretched  beings,  with  the  same  sense 
of  power  to  regulate  their  destiny,  as  to  alter  a  scene 
upon  the  canvas.  He  stood  like  a  magician,  controll 
ing  the  phantoms  which  he  had  evoked. 

'  What !'  muttered  Walter  Ludlow,  as  he  relapsed 
from  fierce  excitement  into  sullen  gloom.  '  Does  Fate 
impede  its  own  decree  ?' 


258  THE      PROPHETIC      PICTURES. 

'  Wretched  lady !'  said  the  painter.  '  Did  I  not 
warn  you  T 

*  You  did,'  replied  Elinor  calmly,  as  her  terror  gave 
place  to  the  quiet  grief  which  it  had  disturbed.  '  But 
— I  loved  him !' 

Is  there  not  a  deep  moral  in  the  tale  ?  Could  the 
result  of  one,  or  all  our  deeds,  be  shadowed  forth  and 
set  before  us — some  would  call  it  Fate,  and  hurry 
onward — others  be  swept  along  by  their  passionate 
desires — and  none  be  turned  aside  by  the  PROPHETIC 
PICTURES. 


DAVID     SWAN. 


DAVID    SWAN 


A     FANTASY. 


WE  can  be  but  partially  acquainted  even  with  the 
events  which  actually  influence  our  course  through 
life,  and  our  final  destiny.  There  are  innumerable 
other  events,  if  such  they  may  be  called,  which  come 
close  upon  us,  yet  pass  away  without  actual  results,  or 
even  betraying  their  near  approach,  by  the  reflection 
of  any  light  or  shadow  across  our  minds.  Could  we 
know  ail  the  vicissitudes  of  our  fortunes,  life  would  be 
too  full  of  hope  and  fear,  exultation  or  disappointment, 
to  afford  us  a  single  hour  of  true  serenity.  This  idea 
may  be  illustrated  by  a  page  from  the  secret  history  of 
David  Swan. 

We  have  nothing  to  do  with  David,  until  we  find 
him,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  on  the  high  road  from  his 
native  place  to  the  city  of  Boston,  where  his  uncle,  a 
small  dealer  in  the  grocery  line,  was  to  take  him  be 
hind  the  counter.  Be  it  enough  to  say,  that  he  was  a 
x 


262  DAVID      SWAN. 

native  of  New  Hampshire,  born  of  respectable  parents, 
and  had  received  an  ordinary  school  education,  with  a 
classic  finish  by  a  year  at  Gilmanton  academy.  After 
journeying  on  foot,  from  sunrise  till  nearly  noon  of  a 
summer's  day,  his  weariness  and  the  increasing  heat 
determined  him  to  sit  down  in  the  first  convenient 
shade,  and  await  the  coming  up  of  the  stage  coach. 
As  if  planted  on  purpose  for  him,  there  soon  appeared 
a  little  tuft  of  maples,  with  a  delightful  recess  in  the 
midst,  and  such  a  fresh  bubbling  spring,  that  it  seemed 
never  to  have  sparkled  for  any  wayfarer  but  David 
Swan.  Virgin  or  not,  he  kissed  it  with  his  thirsty 
lips,  and  then  flung  himself  along  the  brink,  pillowing 
his  head  upon  some  shirts  and  a  pair  of  pantaloons, 
tied  up  in  a  striped  cotton  handkerchief.  The  sun 
beams  could  not  reach  him  ;  the  dust  did  not  yet  rise 
from  the  road,  after  the  heavy  rain  of  yesterday;  and 
his  grassy  lair  suited  the  young  man  better  than  a  bed 
of  down.  The  spring  murmured  drowsily  beside  him  ; 
the  branches  waved  dreamily  across  the  blue  sky,  over 
head;  and  a  deep  sleep,  perchance  hiding  dreams 
within  its  depths,  fell  upon  David  Swan.  But  we  are 
to  relate  events  which  he  did  not  dream  of. 

While  he  lay  sound  asleep  in  the  shade,  other  people 
were  wide  awake,  and  passed  to  and  fro,  a-foot,  on 
norseback,  and  in  all  sorts  of  vehicles,  along  the  sunny 
road  by  his  bedchamber.  Some  looked  neither  to  the 
right  hand  nor  the  left,  and  knew  not  that  he  was 
there ;  some  merely  glanced  that  way,  without  admit- 


DAVIDSWAN.  263 

ting  the  slumberer  among  their  busy  thoughts ;  some 
laughed  to  see  how  soundly  he  slept;  and  several, 
whose  hearts  were  brimming  full  of  scorn,  ejected  their 
venomous  superfluity  on  David  Swan.  A  middle-aged 
widow,  when  nobody  else  was  near,  thrust  her  head  a 
little  way  into  the  recess,  and  vowed  that  the  young 
fellow  looked  charming  in  his  sleep.  A  temperance 
lecturer  saw  him,  and  wrought  poor  David  into  the 
texture  of  his  evening's  discourse,  as  an  awful  instance 
of  dead  drunkenness  by  the  road-side.  But,  censure, 
praise,  merriment,  scorn,  and  indifference,  were  all 
one,  or  rather  all  nothing,  to  David  Swan. 

He  had  slept  only  a  few  moments,  when  a  brown 
carriage,  drawn  by  a  handsome  pair  of  horses,  bowled 
easily  along,  and  was  brought  to  a  stand-still,  nearly  in 
front  of  David's  resting  place.  A  linch-pin  had  fallen 
out,  and  permitted  one  of  the  wheels  to  slide  off.  The 
damage  was  slight,  and  occasioned  merely  a  momentary 
alarm  to  an  elderly  merchant  and  his  wife,  who  were 
returning  to  Boston  in  the  carriage.  While  the  coach 
man  and  a  servant  were  replacing  the  wheel,  the  lady 
and  gentleman  sheltered  themselves  beneath  the  maple 
trees,  and  there  espied  the  bubbling  fountain,  and 
David  Swan  asleep  beside  it.  Impressed  with  the  awe 
which  the  humblest  sleeper  usually  sheds  around  him, 
the  merchant  trod  as  lightly  as  the  gout  would  allow; 
and  his  spouse  took  good  heed  not  to  rustle  her  silk 
gown,  lest  David  should  start  up,  all  of  a  sudden. 

'  How  soundly  he  sleeps  !'  whispered  the  old  gentle- 


*     , 

*       » *>  •• 

*J_ 
264  DAVID      SWAN. 

man.     '  From  what  a  depth  he  draws  that  easy  breath  !• 
Such    sleep    as  that,   brought  on  without  an   opiate, 
would  be  worth  more  to  me  than  half  my  income  ;  for 
it  would  suppose  health,  and  an  untroubled  mind.' 

'  And  youth,  besides,'  said  the  lady.  '  Healthy  and 
quiet  age  does  not  sleep  thus.  Our  slumber  is  no 
more  like  his,  than  our  wakefulness.' 

The  longer  they  looked,  the  more  did  this  elderly 
couple  feel  interested  in  the  unknown  youth,  to  whom 
the  way-side  and  the  maple  shade  were  as  a  secret 
chamber,  with  the  rich  gloom  of  damask  curtains 
brooding  over  him.  Perceiving  that  a  stray  sunbeam 
glimmered  down  upon  his  face,  the  lady  contrived  to 
twist  a  branch  aside,  so  as  to  intercept  it.  And  having 
done  this  little  act  of  kindness,  she  began  to  feel  like  a 
mother  to  him. 

'  Providence  seems  to  have  laid  him  here,'  whisper 
ed  she  to  her  husband,  '  and  to  have  brought  us  hither 
to  find  him,  after  our  disappointment  in  our  cousin's 
son.  Methinks  I  can  see  a  likeness  to  our  departed 
Henry.  Shall  we  waken  him  ?' 

'  To  what  purpose?'  said  the  merchant,  hesitating. 
*  We  know  nothing  of  the  youth's  character.' 

'  That  open  countenance !'  replied  his  wife,  in  the 
same  hushed  voice,  yet  earnestly.  '  This  innocent 


While  these  whispers  were  passing,  the  sleeper's 
heart  did  not  throb,  nor  his  breath  become  agitated, 
nor  his  features  betray  the  least  token  of  interest. 


DAVID      SWAN.  265 

Yet  Fortune  was  bending  over  him,  just  ready  to  let 
fall  a  burthen  of  gold.  The  old  merchant  had  lost  his 
only  son,  and  had  no  heir  to  his  wealth,  except  a  dis 
tant  relative,  with  whose  conduct  he  was  dissatisfied. 
In  such  cases,  people  sometimes  do  stranger  things 
than  to  act  the  magician,  and  awaken  a  young  man  to 
splendor,  who  fell  asleep  in  poverty. 

'  Shall  we  not  waken  him '?'  repeated  the  lady,  per 
suasively. 

'  The  coach  is  ready,  sir,'  said  the  servant,  behind. 

The  old  couple  started,  reddened,  and  hurried 
away,  mutually  wondering,  that  they  should  ever  have 
dreamed  of  doing  any  thing  so  very  ridiculous.  The 
merchant  threw  himself  back  in  the  carriage,  and 
occupied  his  mind  with  the  plan  of  a  magnificent 
asylum  for  unfortunate  men  of  business.  Meanwhile, 
David  Swan  enjoyed  his  nap. 

The  carriage  could  not  have  gone  above  a  mile  or 
two,  when  a  pretty  young  girl  came  along,  with  a 
tripping  pace,  which  shewed  precisely  how  her  little 
heart  was  dancing  in  her  bosom.  Perhaps  it  was  this 
merry  kind  of  motion  that  caused — is  there  any  harm 
in  saying  it? — her  garter  to  slip  its  knot.  Conscious 
that  the  silken  girth,  if  silk  it  were,  was  relaxing  its 
hold,  she  turned  aside  into  the  shelter  of  the  maple 
trees,  and  there  found  a  young  man  asleep  by  the 
spring  !  Blushing,  as  red  as  any  rose,  that  she  should 
have  intruded  into  a  gentleman's  bedchamber,  and  for 
such  a  purpose  too,  she  was  about  to  make  her  escape 
x* 


266  DAVID      SWAN. 

on  tiptoe.  But,  there  was  peril  near  the  sleeper.  A 
monster  of  a  bee  had  been  wandering  overhead — buzz, 
buzz,  buzz — now  among  the  leaves,  now  flashing 
through  the  strips  of  sunshine,  and  now  lost  in  the 
dark  shade,  till  finally  he  appeared  to  be  settling  on  the 
eyelid  of  David  Swan.  The  sting  of  a  bee  is  some 
times  deadly.  As  free-hearted  as  she  was  innocent, 
the  girl  attacked  the  intruder  with  her  handkerchief, 
brushed  him  soundly,  and  drove  him  from  beneath  the 
maple  shade.  How  sweet  a  picture  !  This  good  deed 
accomplished,  with  quickened  breath,  and  a  deeper 
blush,  she  stole  a  glance  at  the  youthful  stranger,  for 
whom  she  had  been  battling  with  a  dragon  in  the  air. 

'  He  is  handsome  !'  thought  she,  and  blushed  redder 
yet. 

How  could  it  be  that  no  dream  of  bliss  grew  so 
strong  within  him,  that,  shattered  by  its  very  strength, 
it  should  part  asunder,  and  allow  him  to  perceive  the 
girl  among  its  phantoms  ?  Why,  at  least,  did  no  smile 
of  welcome  brighten  upon  his  face  1  She  was  come, 
the  maid  whose  soul,  according  to  the  old  and  beauti 
ful  idea,  had  been  severed  from  his  own,  and  whom, 
in  all  his  vague  but  passionate  desires,  he  yearned  to 
meet.  Her,  only,  could  he  love  with  a  perfect  love — 
him,  only,  could  she  receive  into  the  depths  of  her 
heart — and  now  her  image  was  faintly  blushing  in  the 
fountain,  by  his  side  ;  should  it  pass  away,  its  happy 
lustre  would  never  gleam  upon  his  life  again. 

'  How  sound  he  sleeps  !'  murmured  the  girl. 


DAVID      SWAN.  267 

She  departed,  but  did  not  trip  along  the  road  so 
lightly  as  when  she  came. 

Now,  this  girl's  father  was  a  thriving  country  mer 
chant  in  the  neighborhood,  and  happened,  at  that 
identical  time,  to  be  looking  out  for  just  such  a  young 
man  as  David  Swan.  Had  David  formed  a  way-side 
acquaintance  with  the  daughter,  he  would  have  be 
come  the  father's  clerk,  and  all  else  in  natural  succes 
sion.  So  here,  again,  had  good  fortune — the  best  of 
fortunes — stolen  so  near,  that  her  garments  brushed 
against  him  ;  and  he  knew  nothing  of  the  matter. 

The  girl  was  hardly  out  of  sight,  when  two  men 
turned  aside  beneath  the  maple  shade.  Both  had  dark 
faces,  set  off  by  cloth  caps,  which  were  drawn  down 
aslant  over  their  brows.  Their  dresses  were  shabby, 
yet  had  a  certain  smartness.  These  were  a  couple  of 
rascals,  who  got  their  living  by  whatever  the  devil  sent 
them,  and  now,  in  the  interim  of  other  business,  had 
staked  the  joint  profits  of  their  next  piece  of  villany 
on  a  game  of  cards,  which  was  to  have  been  decided 
here  under  the  trees.  But,  finding  David  asleep  by 
the  spring,  one  of  the  rogues  whispered  to  his  fellow, 

'  Hist ! — Do  you  see  that  bundle  under  his  head  T 

The  other  villain  nodded,  winked,  and  leered. 

'  I'll  bet  you  a  horn  of  brandy,'  said  the  first,  '  that 
the  chap  has  either  a  pocketbook,  or  a  snug  little 
hoard  of  small  change,  stowed  away  amongst  his  shirts. 
And  if  not  there,  we  shall  find  it  in  his  pantaloons' 
pocket.' 


DAVID       SWAN. 

'  But  how  if  he  wakes  ?'  said  the  other. 

His  companion  thrust  aside  his  waistcoat,  pointed 
to  the  handle  of  a  dirk,  and  nodded. 

'  So  be  it !'  muttered  the  second  villain. 

They  approached  the  unconscious  David,  and,  while 
one  pointed  the  dagger  towards  his  heart,  the  other 
began  to  search  the  bundle  beneath  his  head.  Their 
two  faces,  grim,  wrinkled,  and  ghastly  with  guilt  and 
fear,  bent  over  their  victim,  looking  horrible  enough 
to  be  mistaken  for  fiends,  should  he  suddenly  awake. 
Nay,  had  the  villains  glanced  aside  into  the  spring, 
even  they  would  hardly  have  known  themselves,  as 
reflected  there.  But  David  Swan  had  never  worn  a 
more  tranquil  aspect,  even  when  asleep  on  his  mother's 
breast. 

( I  must  take  away  the  bundle,'  whispered  one. 

'  If  he  stirs,  I'll  strike,'  muttered  the  other. 

But,  at  this  moment,  a  dog,  scenting  along  the 
ground,  came  in  beneath  the  maple  trees,  and  gazed 
alternately  at  each  of  these  wicked  men,  and  then  at 
the  quiet  sleeper.  He  then  lapped  out  of  the  fountain. 

'  Pshaw  !'  said  one  villain.  *  We  can  do  nothing 
now.  The  dog's  master  must  be  close  behind.' 

'  Let's  take  a  drink,  and  be  oif,'  said  the  other. 

The  man,  with  the  dagger,  thrust  back  the  weapon 
into  his  bosom,  and  drew  forth  a  pocket  pistol,  but  not 
of  that  kind  which  kills  by  a  single  discharge.  It  was 
a  flask  of  liquor,  with  a  block-tin  tumbler  screwed 
upon  the  mouth.  Each  drank  a  comfortable  dram, 


DAVID      SWAN. 

and  left  the  spot,  with  so  many  jests,  and  such  laughter 
at  their  unaccomplished  wickedness,  that  they  might 
be  said  to  have  gone  on  their  way  rejoicing.  In  a 
few  hours,  they  had  forgotten  the  whole  affair,  nor 
once  imagined  that  the  recording  angel  had  written 
down  the  crime  of  murder  against  their  souls,  in  letters 
as  durable  as  eternity.  As  for  David  Swan,  he  still 
slept  quietly,  neither  conscious  of  the  shadow  of  death 
when  it  hung  over  him,  nor  of  the  glow  of  renewed 
life,  when  that  shadow  was  withdrawn. 

He  slept,  but  no  longer  so  quietly  as  at  first.  An 
hour's  repose  had  snatched,  from  his  elastic  frame,  the 
weariness  with  which  many  hours  of  toil  had  burthen- 
ed  it.  Now,  he  stirred — now,  moved  his  lips,  without 
a  sound — now,  talked,  in  an  inward  tone,  to  the  noon 
day  spectres  of  his  dream.  But  a  noise  of  wheels 
came  rattling  louder  and  louder  along  the  road,  until 
it  dashed  through  the  dispersing  mist  of  David's  slum 
ber — and  there  was  the  stage  coach.  He  started  up, 
with  all  his  ideas  about  him. 

'  Halloo,  driver  ! — Take  a  passenger  ?'  shouted  he 
'  Room  on  top  !'   answered  the  driver. 
Up  mounted  David,   and  bowled  away  merrily  to 
wards  Boston,  without  so  much  as  a  parting  glance  at 
that  fountain  of  dreamlike  vicissitude.     He  knew  not 
that  a  phantom  of  wealth  had  thrown  a  golden  hue 
upon  its  waters — nor  that  one  of  love  had  sighed  softly 
to  their  murmur — nor  that  one  of  death  had  threatened 
to  crimson  them  with  his  blood — all,  in  the  brief  hour 


270  DAVID      SWAN. 

since  he  lay  down  to  sleep.  Sleeping  or  waking,  we 
hear  not  the  airy  footsteps  of  the  strange  things  that 
almost  happen.  Does  it  not  argue  a  superintending 
Providence,  that,  while  viewless  and  unexpected  events 
thrust  themselves  continually  athwart  our  path,  there 
should  still  be  regularity  enough,  in  mortal  life,  to 
render  foresight  even  partially  available  ? 


SIGHTS    FRO MA    STEEPLE 


SIGHTS     FROM     A     STEEPLE. 


So  !  I  have  climbed  high,  and  my  reward  is  small. 
Here  I  stand,  with  wearied  knees,  earth,  indeed,  at 
a  dizzy  depth  below,  but  heaven  far,  far  beyond  me 
still.  O  that  I  could  soar  up  into  the  very  zenith, 
where  man  never  breathed,  nor  eagle  ever  flew,  and 
where  the  ethereal  azure  melts  away  from  the  eye,  and 
appears  only  a  deepened  shade  of  nothingness  !  And 
yet  I  shiver  at  that  cold  and  solitary  thought.  What 
clouds  are  gathering  in  the  golden  west,  with  direful 
intent  against  the  brightness  and  the  warmth  of  this 
summer  afternoon  !  They  are  ponderous  air-ships, 
black  as  death,  and  freighted  with  the  tempest ;  and 
at  intervals  their  thunder,  the  signal-guns  of  that  un 
earthly  squadron,  rolls  distant  along  the  deep  of  heaven. 
These  nearer  heaps  of  fleecy  vapor — methinks  I  could 
roll  and  toss  upon  them  the  whole  day  long ! — seem 
scattered  here  and  there,  for  the  repose  of  tired  pil 
grims  through  the  sky.  Perhaps — for  who  can  tell  ? — 

Y 


274  SIGHTS      FROM      A      STEEPLE. 

beautiful  spirits  are  disporting  themselves  there,  and 
will  bless  my  mortal  eye  with  the  brief  appearance  of 
their  curly  locks  of  golden  light,  and  laughing  faces, 
fair  and  faint  as  the  people  of  a  rosy  dream.  Or, 
where  the  floating  mass  so  imperfectly  obstructs  the 
color  of  the  firmament,  a  slender  foot  and  fairy  limb, 
resting  too  heavily  upon  the  frail  support,  may  be  thrust 
through,  and  suddenly  withdrawn,  while  longing  fancy 
follows  them  in  vain.  Yonder  again  is  an  airy  arch 
ipelago,  where  the  sunbeams  love  to  linger  in  their 
journeyings  through  space.  Every  one  of  those  little 
clouds  has  been  dipped  and  steeped  in  radiance,  which 
the  slightest  pressure  might  disengage  in  silvery  pro 
fusion,  like  water  wrung  from  a  sea-maid's  hair.  Bright 
they  are  as  a  young  man's  visions,  and  like  them, 
would  be  realized  in  dullness,  obscurity  and  tears. 
I  will  look  on  them  no  more. 

In  three  parts  of  the  visible  circle,  whose  centre  is 
this  spire,  I  discern  cultivated  fields,  villages,  white 
country-seats,  the  waving  lines  of  rivulets,  little  placid 
lakes,  and  here  and  there  a  rising  ground,  that  would 
fain  be  termed  a  hill.  On  the  fourth  side  is  the  sea, 
stretching  away  towards  a  viewless  boundary,  blue  and 
calm,  except  where  the  passing  anger  of  a  shadow  flits 
across  its  surface,  and  is  gone.  Hitherward,  a  broad 
inlet  penetrates  far  into  the  land ;  on  the  verge  of  the 
harbor,  formed  by  its  extremity,  is  a  town  ;  and  over 
it  am  I,  a  watchman,  all-heeding  and  unheeded.  O 
that  the  multitude  of  chimneys  could  speak,  like  those 


SIGHTS      FROM      A      STEEPLE.  275 

jji,'.  -i^^fis^ 

of  Madrid,  and  betray  in  smoky  whispers,  the  secrets 
of  all  who,  since  their  first  foundation,  have  assembled 
at  the  hearths  within !  O  that  the  Limping  Devil  of 
Le  Sage  would  perch  beside  me  here,  extend  his  wand 
over  this  contiguity  of  roofs,  uncover  every  chamber, 
and  make  me  familiar  with  their  inhabitants !  The 
most  desirable  mode  of  existence  might  be  that  of  a 
spiritualized  Paul  Pry,  hovering  invisible  round  man 
and  woman,  witnessing  their  deeds,  searching  into 
their  hearts,  borrowing  brightness  from  their  felicity, 
and  shade  from  their  sorrow,  and  retaining  no  emotion 
peculiar  to  himself.  But  none  of  these  things  are 
possible ;  and  if  I  would  know  the  interior  of  brick 
walls,  or  the  mystery  of  human  bosoms,  I  can  but 
guess. 

Yonder  is  a  fair  street,  extending  north  and  south. 
The  stately  mansions  are  placed  each  on  its  carpet  of 
verdant  grass,  and  a  long  flight  of  steps  descends  from 
every  door  to  the  pavement.  Ornamental  trees,  the 
broad-leafed  horse-chestnut,  the  elm  so  lofty  and  bend 
ing,  the  graceful  but  infrequent  willow,  and  others 
whereof  I  know  not  the  names,  grow  thrivingly  among 
brick  and  stone.  The  oblique  rays  of  the  sun  are  in 
tercepted  by  these  green  citizens,  and  by  the  houses, 
so  that  one  side  of  the  street  is  a  shaded  and  pleasant 
walk.  On  its  whole  extent  there  is  now  but  a  single 
passenger,  advancing  from  the  upper  end ;  and  he, 
unless  distance,  and  the  medium  of  a  pocket  spyglass 
do  him  more  than  justice,  is  a  fine  young  man  of 


276  SIGHTS      FROM      A      STEEPLE 

twenty.  He  saunters  slowly  forward,  slapping  his  left 
hand  with  his  folded  gloves,  bending  his  eyes  upon  the 
pavement,  and  sometimes  raising  them  to  throw  a 
glance  before  him.  Certainly,  he  has  a  pensive  air. 
Is  he  in  doubt,  or  in  debt  ?  Is  he,  if  the  question  be 
allowable,  in  love  ?  Does  he  strive  to  be  melancholy 
and  gentlemanlike  ? — Or,  is  he  merely  overcome  by 
the  heat?  But  I  bid  him  farewell,  for  the  present. 
The  door  of  one  of  the  houses,  an  aristocratic  edifice, 
with  curtains  of  purple  and  gold  waving  from  the 
windows,  is  now  opened,  and  down  the  steps  come 
two  ladies,  swinging  their  parasols,  and  lightly  arrayed 
for  a  summer  ramble.  Both  are  young,  both  are 
pretty ;  but  methinks  the  left  hand  lass  is  the  fairer  of 
the  twain ;  and  though  she  be  so  serious  at  this 
moment,  I  could  swear  that  there  is  a  treasure  of  gentle 
fun  within  her.  They  stand  talking  a  little  while  upon 
the  steps,  and  finally  proceed  up  the  street.  Meantime, 
as  their  faces  are  now  turned  from  me,  I  may  look 
elsewhere. 

Upon  that  wharf,  and  down  the  corresponding  street, 
is  a  busy  contrast  to  the  quiet  scene  which  I  have  just 
noticed.  Business  evidently  has  its  centre  there,  and 
many  a  man  is  wasting  the  summer  afternoon  in  labor 
and  anxiety,  in  losing  riches,  or  in  gaining  them,  when 
he  would  be  wiser  to  flee  away  to  some  pleasant 
country  village,  or  shaded  lake  in  the  forest,  or  wild 
and  cool  sea-beach.  I  see  vessels  unlading  at  the 
wharf,  and  precious  merchandise  strown  upon  the 


SIGHTS      FROM      A      STEEPLE.  277 

ad,  abundantly  as  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  that 
market  whence  no  goods  return,  and  where  there  is 
no  captain  nor  supercargo  to  render  an  account  of 
sales.  Here,  the  clerks  are  diligent  with  their  paper 
and  pencils,  and  sailors  ply  the  block  and  tackle  that 
hang  over  the  hold,  accompanying  their  toil  with  cries, 
long-drawn  and  roughly  melodious,  till  the  bales  and 
puncheons  ascend  to  upper  air.  At  a  little  distance,  a 
group  of  gentlemen  are  assembled  round  the  door  of  a 
warehouse.  Grave  seniors  be  they,  and  I  would  wager 
— if  it  were  safe,  in  these  times,  to  be  responsible  for 
any  one — that  the  least  eminent  among  them,  might 
vie  with  old  Vincentio,  that  incomparable  trafficker  of 
Pisa.  I  can  even  select  the  wealthiest  of  the  company. 
It  is  the  elderly  personage  in  somewhat  rusty  black, 
with  powdered  hair,  the  superfluous  whiteness  of  which 
is  visible  upon  the  cape  of  his  coat.  His  twenty  ships 
are  wafted  on  some  of  their  many  courses  by  every 
breeze  that  blows,  and  his  name — I  will  venture  to  say, 
though  I  know  it  not — is  a  familiar  sound  among  the 
far  separated  merchants  of  Europe  and  the  Indies. 
But  I  bestow  too  much  of  my  attention  in  this  quarter. 
On  looking  again  to  the  long  and  shady  walk,  I  per 
ceive  that  the  two  fair  girls  have  encountered  the 
young  man.  After  a  sort  of  shyness  in  the  recognition, 
he  turns  back  with  them.  Moreover,  he  has  sanction 
ed  my  taste  in  regard  to  his  companions  by  placing 
himself  on  the  inner  side  of  the  pavement,  nearest  the 
Venus  to  whom  I — enacting,  on  a  steeple-top,  the  part 


278  SIGHTS      FROM      A      STEEPLE. 

of  Paris   on    the   top    of  Ida — adjudged   the  golden 
apple. 

In  two  streets,  converging  at  right  angles  towards 
my  watchtower,  I   distinguish  three  different  proces 
sions.     One  is   a  proud  array  of  voluntary  soldiers  in 
bright  uniform,  resembling,  from  the  height  whence  I 
look    down,    the  painted  veterans  that   garrison    the 
windows   of  a  toyshop.     And  yet,  it  stirs  my  heart ; 
their  regular  advance,  their   nodding  plumes,  the  sun- 
flash  on  their  bayonets  and  musket-barrels,  the  roll  of 
their  drums  ascending  past  me,  and  the  fife   ever  and 
anon  piercing  through — these  things  have  wakened  a 
warlike  fire,  peaceful  though  I  be.     Close  to  their  rear 
marches  a  battalion  of  schoolboys,  ranged  in  crooked 
and  irregular  platoons,  shouldering  sticks,  thumping  a 
harsh  and  unripe  clatter  from  an  instrument  of  tin,  and 
ridiculously   aping   the    intricate    manoeuvres  of    the 
foremost  band.     Nevertheless,  as  slight  differences  are 
scarcely  perceptible  from  a  church  spire,  one  might  be 
tempted   to   ask,  *  Which  are  the  boys  V — or  rather, 
*  Which  the  men  T     But,  leaving  these,  let  us  turn  to 
the  third  procession,  which,  though  sadder  in  outward 
show,  may  excite  identical  reflections  in  the  thoughtful 
mind.     It  is  a  funeral.     A  hearse,  drawn  by  a  black 
and  bony  steed,  and  covered  by  a  dusty  pall ;  two  or 
three  coaches  rumbling  over  the   stones,  their  drivers 
half  asleep  ;  a  dozen  couple  of  careless  mourners  in 
their  every-day  attire  ;  such  was  not  the  fashion  of  our 
fathers,  when  they  carried  a  friend  to  his  grave.    There 


SIGHTS      FROM      A      STEEPLE.  279 

is  now  no  doleful  clang  of  the  bell,  to  proclaim  sorrow  to 
the  town.  Was  the  King  of  Terrors  more  awful  in 
those  days  than  in  our  own,  that  wisdom  and  philosophy 
have  been  able  to  produce  this  change  1  Not  so. 
Here  is  a  proof  that  he  retains  his  proper  majesty. 
The  military  men,  and  the  military  boys,  are  wheeling 
round  the  corner,  and  meet  the  funeral  full  in  the  face. 
Immediately  the  drum  is  silent,  all  but  the  tap  that 
regulates  each  simultaneous  foot-fall.  The  soldiers 
yield  the  path  to  the  dusty  hearse,  and  unpretending 
train,  and  the  children  quit  their  ranks,  and  cluster  on 
the  sidewalks,  with  timorous  and  instinctive  curiosity. 
The  mourners  enter  the  churchyard  at  the  base  of  the 
steeple,  and  pause  by  an  open  grave  among  the  burial 
stones ;  the  lightning  glimmers  on  them  as  they  lower 
down  the  coffin,  and  the  thunder  rattles  heavily  while 
they  throw  the  earth  upon  its  lid.  Verily,  the  shower 
is  near,  and  I  tremble  for  the  young  man  and  the  girls, 
who  have  now  disappeared  from  the  long  and  shady 
street. 

How  various  are  the  situations  of  the  people  covered 
by  the  roofs  beneath  me,  and  how  diversified  are  the 
events  at  this  moment  befalling  them  !  The  new-born, 
the  aged,  the  dying,  the  strong  in  life,  and  the  recent 
dead,  are  in  the  chambers  of  these  many  mansions.  The 
full  of  hope,  the  happy,  the  miserable,  and  the  des 
perate,  dwell  together  within  the  circle  of  my  glance. 
In  some  of  the  houses  over  which  my  eyes  roam  so 
coldly,  guilt  is  entering  into  hearts  that  are  still  tenanted 


*'  :w 

280  SIGHTS      PROM      A      STEEPLE 


by  a  debased  and  trodden  virtue, — guilt  is  on  the 
very  edge  of  commission,  and  the  impending  deed 
might  be  averted  ;  guilt  is  done,  and  the  criminal 
wonders  if  it  be  irrevocable.  There  are  broad  thoughts 
struggling  in  my  mind,  and,  were  I  able  to  give  them 
distinctness,  they  would  make  their  way  in  eloquence. 
Lo  !  the  rain-drops  are  descending. 

The  clouds,  within  a  little  time,  have  gathered  over 
all  the  sky,  hanging  heavily,  as  if  about  to  drop  in  one 
unbroken  mass  upon  the  earth.  At  intervals,  the 
lightning  flashes  from  their  brooding  hearts,  quivers, 
disappears,  and  then  comes  the  thunder,  travelling 
slowly  after  its  twin-born  flame.  A  strong  wind  has 
sprung  up,  howls  through  the  darkened  streets,  and 
raises  the  dust  in  dense  bodies,  to  rebel  against  the 
approaching  storm.  The  disbanded  soldiers  fly,  the 
funeral  has  already  vanished  like  its  dead,  and  all 
people  hurry  homeward — all  that  have  a  home ;  while 
a  few  lounge  by  the  corners,  or  trudge  on  desperately, 
at  their  leisure.  In  a  narrow  lane  which  communi 
cates  with  the  shady  street,  I  discern  the  rich  old 
merchant,  putting  himself  to  the  top  of  his  speed,  lest 
the  rain  should  convert  his  hair-powder  to  a  paste. 
Unhappy  gentleman !  By  the  slow  vehemence,  and 
painful  moderation  wherewith  he  journeys,  it  is  but 
too  evident  that  Podagra  has  left  its  thrilling  tender 
ness  in  his  great  toe.  But  yonder,  at  a  far  more  rapid 
pace,  come  three  other  of  my  acquaintance,  the  two 
pretty  girls  and  the  young  man,  unseasonably  interrupted 


fc     ..  - 

SIGHTS      FROM      A      STEEPLE.  281 

tv 

in    their    walk.      Their  footsteps    are    supported    by 
the  risen  dust,  the  wind  lends  them  its  velocity,  they 
fly  like  three  sea-birds  driven  landward  by  the   tern* 
pestuous   breeze.     The  ladies  would  not  thus   rival 
Atalanta,  if  they  but  knew  that  any  one  were  at  leisure 
to  observe  them.     Ah  !  as  they  hasten  onward,  laugh 
ing  in  the  angry  face  of  nature,  a  sudden   catastrophe 
has  chanced.     At  the  corner  where  the  narrow  lane 
enters  into  the  street,  they  come  plump  against  the  old 
merchant,  whose  tortoise  motion  has  just  brought  him 
to  that  point.     He  likes  not  the  sweet  encounter ;  the 
darkness  of  the  whole  air  gathers  speedily  upon  his 
visage,  and  there  is  a  pause  on  both  sides.     Finally  he 
thrusts  aside  the  youth  with  little  courtesy,  seizes   an 
arm  of  each  of  the  two  girls,  and  plods  onward,  like  a 
magician  with  a  prize  of  captive  fairies.     All  this  is 
easy  to  be  understood.     How  disconsolate  the  poor 
lover  stands !  regardless  of  the  rain  that  threatens  an 
exceeding  damage  to  his  well-fashioned  habiliments,  till 
he  catches  a  backward  glance  of  mirth  from  a  bright 
eye,  and  turns  away  with  whatever  comfort  it  conveys. 
The  old  man  and  his  daughters  are   safely  housed, 
and  now  the  storm  lets  loose  its  fury.     In  every  dwell 
ing  I  perceive  the  faces  of  the  chambermaids  as  they 
shut    down    the    windows,    excluding   the    impetuous 
shower,  and  shrinking  away  from  the  quick  fiery  glare. 
The  large   drops  descend  with  force  upon  the  slated 
roofs,  and  rise  again  in  smoke.     There  is  a  rush  and 
roar,  as  of  a  river  through  the  air,  and  muddy  streams 


282  SIGHTS      FROM      A      STEEPLE* 

bubble  majestically  along  the  pavement,  whirl  their 
dusky  foam  into  the  kennel,  and  disappear  beneath 
iron  grates.  Thus  did  Arethusa  sink.  I  love  not 
my  station  here  aloft,  in  the  midst  of  the  tumult 
which  I  am  powerless  to  direct  or  quell,  with  the  blue 
lightning  wrinkling  on  my  brow,  and  the  thunder  mut 
tering  its  first  awful  syllables  in  my  ear.  I  will  descend. 
Yet  let  me  give  another  glance  to  the  sea,  where  the 
foam  breaks  out  in  long  white  lines  upon  a  broad  ex 
panse  of  blacknessror  boils  up  in  far  distant  points, 
like  snowy  mountain-tops  in  the  eddies  of  a  flood ;  and 
let  me  look  once  more  at  the  green  plain,  and  little 
hills  of  the  country,  over  which  the  giant  of  the  storm 
is  striding  in  robes  of  mist,  and  at  the  town,  whose 
obscured  and  desolate  streets  might  beseem  a  city  of 
the  dead  :  and  turning  a  single  moment  to  the  sky, 
now  gloomy  as  an  author's  prospects,  I  prepare  to 
resume  my  station  on  lower  earth.  But  stay  !  A 
little  speck  of  azure  has  widened  in  the  western 
heavens ;  the  sunbeams  find  a  passage,  and  go  rejoicing 
through  the  tempest ;  and  on  yonder  darkest  cloud, 
born,  like  hallowed  hopes,  of  the  glory  of  another  world, 
and  the  trouble  and  tears  of  this,  brightens  forth  the 
Rainbow  ! 


THE    HOLLOW    OF    THE    THREE 
HILLS. 


THE    HOLLOW    OF    THE    THREE 
HILLS. 


ffck  •*  iw 

IN  those  strange  old  times,  when  fantastic  dreams 
and  madmen's  reveries  were  realized  among  the  actual 
circumstances  of  life,  two  persons  met  together  at  an 
appointed  hour  and  place.  One  was  a  lady,  graceful 
in  form  and  fair  of  feature,  though  pale  and  troubled, 
and  smitten  with  an  untimely  blight  in  what  should 
have  been  the  fullest  bloom  of  her  years ;  the  other 
was  an  ancient  and  meanly  dressed  woman,  of  ill-fa 
vored  aspect,  and  so  withered,  shrunken  and  decrepit, 
that  even  the  space  since  she  began  to  decay  must 
have  exceeded  the  ordinary  term  of  human  existence. 
In  the  spot  where  they  encountered,  no  mortal  could 
observe  them.  Three  little  hills  stood  near  each  other, 
and  down  in  the  midst  of  them  sunk  a  hollow  basin, 
almost  mathematically  circular,  two  or  three  hundred 
feet  in  breadth,  and  of  such  depth  that  a  stately  cedar 


286     THE     HOLLOW     OF     THE     THREE     HILLS. 

might  but  just  be  visible  above  the  sides.  Dwarf  pines 
were  numerous  upon  the  hills,  and  partly  fringed  the 
outer  verge  of  the  intermediate  hollow  ;  within  which 
there  was  nothing  but  the  brown  grass  of  October,  and 
here  and  there  a  tree-trunk,  that  had  fallen  long  ago, 
and  lay  mouldering  with  no  green  successor  from  its 
roots.  One  of  these  masses  of  decaying  wood,  for 
merly  a  majestic  oak,  rested  close  beside  a  pool  of 
green  and  sluggish  water  at  the  bottom  of  the  basin. 
Such  scenes  as  this  (so  gray  tradition  tells)  were  once 
the  resort  of  a  Power  of  Evil  and  his  plighted  sub 
jects  ;  and  here,  at  midnight  or  on  the  dim  verge  of 
evening,  they  were  said  to  stand  round  the  mantling 
pool,  disturbing  its  putrid  waters  in  the  performance 
of  an  impious  baptismal  rite.  The  chill  beauty  of  an 
autumnal  sunset  was  now  gilding  the  three  hill-tops, 
whence  a  paler  tint  stole  down  their  sides  into  the 
hollow. 

'  Here  is  our  pleasant  meeting  come  to  pass,'  said 
the  aged  crone,  '  according  as  thou  hast  desired.  Say 
quickly  what  thou  wouldst  have  of  me,  for  there  is  but 
a  short  hour  that  we  may  tarry  here.' 

As  the  old  withered  woman  spoke,  a  smile  glimmer 
ed  on  her  countenance,  like  lamplight  on  the  wall  of 
a  sepulchre.  The  lady  trembled,  and  cast  her  eyes 
upward  to  the  verge  of  the  basin,  as  if  meditating  to 
return  with  her  purpose  unaccomplished.  But  it  was 
not  so  ordained. 

'  I  am  stranger  in  this  land,  as  you  know,'  said  she 


THE     HOLLOW     OF     THE     THREE     HILLS.     287 

at  length.  '  Whence  I  come  it  matters  not ; — but  I 
have  left  those  behind  me  with  whom  my  fate  was 
intimately  bound,  and  from  whom  I  am  cut  off  for  ever. 
There  is  a  weight  in  my  bosom  that  I  cannot  away 
with,  and  I  have  come  hither  to  inquire  of  their  wel 
fare.' 

'  And  who  is  there  by  this  green  pool,  that  can 
bring  thee  news  from  the  ends  of  the  Earth  V  cried 
the  old  woman,  peering  into  the  lady's  face.  '  Not 
from  my  lips  mayst  thou  hear  these  tidings  ;  yet,  be 
thou  bold,  and  the  daylight  shall  not  pass  away  from 
yonder  hill-top,  before  thy  wish  be  granted.' 

1 1  will  do  your  bidding  though  I  die,'  replied  the 
lady  desperately. 

The  old  woman  seated  herself  on  the  trunk  of  the 
fallen  tree,  threw  aside  the  hood  that  shrouded  her 
gray  locks,  and  beckoned  her  companion  to  draw  near. 

'  Kneel  down,'  she  said,  '  and  lay  your  forehead  on 
my  knees.' 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  but  the  anxiety,  that  had 
long  been  kindling,  burned  fiercely  up  within  her.  As 
she  knelt  down,  the  border  of  her  garment  was  dipped 
into  the  pool ;  she  laid  her  forehead  on  the  old 
woman's  knees,  and  the  latter  drew  a  cloak  about  the 
lady's  face,  so  that  she  was  in  darkness.  Then  she 
heard  the  muttered  words  of  a  prayer,  in  the  midst  of 
which  she  started,  and  would  have  arisen. 

'  Let  me  flee, — let  me  flee  and  hide  myself,  that  they 
may  not  look  upon  me  !'  she  cried.  But,  with  return- 


288     THE     HOLLOW     OF     THE     THREE     HILLS. 

ing  recollection,  she  hushed  herself,  and  was  still  as 
death. 

For  it  seemed  as  if  other  voices, — familiar  in  infancy, 
and  unforgotten  through  many  wanderings,  and  in 
all  the  vicissitudes  of  her  heart  and  fortune — were 
mingling  with  the  accents  of  the  prayer.  At  first  the 
words  were  faint  and  indistinct,  not  rendered  so  by 
distance,  but  rather  resembling  the  dim  pages  of  a 
book,  which  we  strive  to  read  by  an  imperfect  and 
gradually  brightening  light.  In  such  a  manner,  as  the 
prayer  proceeded,  did  those  voices  strengthen  upon 
the  ear  ;  till  at  length  the  petition  ended,  and  the  con 
versation  of  an  aged  man,  and  of  a  woman  broken  and 
decayed  like  himself,  became  distinctly  audible  to  the 
lady  as  she  knelt.  But  those  strangers  appeared  not 
to  stand  in  the  hollow  depth  between  the  three  hills. 
Their  voices  were  encompassed  and  re-echoed  by  the 
walls  of  a  chamber,  the  windows  of  which  were  rattling 
in  the  breeze ;  the  regular  vibration  of  a  clock,  the 
crackling  of  a  fire,  and  the  tinkling  of  the  embers  as 
they  fell  among  the  ashes,  rendered  the  scene  almost 
as  vivid  as  if  painted  to  the  eye.  By  a  melancholy 
hearth  sat  these  two  old  people,  the  man  calmly  de 
spondent,  the  woman  querulous  and  tearful,  and  their 
words  were  all  of  sorrow.  They  spoke  of  a  daughter, 
a  wanderer  they  knew  not  where,  bearing  dishonor 
along  with  her,  and  leaving  shame  and  affliction  to 
bring  their  gray  heads  to  the  grave.  They  alluded 
also  to  other  and  more  recent  woe,  but  in  the  midst  of 


THE     HOLLOW     OF     THE     THREE     HILLS.    289 

their  talk,  their  voices  seemed  to  melt  into  the  sound 
of  the  wind  sweeping  mournfully  among  the  autumn 
leaves ;  and  when  the  lady  lifted  her  eyes,  there  was 
she  kneeling  in  the  hollow  between  three  hills. 

'  A  weary  and  lonesome  time  yonder  old  couple 
have  of  it,'  remarked  the  old  woman,  smiling  in  the 
lady's  face. 

'  And  did  you  also  hear  them  !'  exclaimed  she,  a 
sense  of  intolerable  humiliation  triumphing  over  her 
agony  and  fear. 

'  Yea ;  and  we  have  yet  more  to  hear,'  replied  the 
old  woman.  '  Wherefore,  cover  thy  face  quickly.' 

Again  the  withered  hag  poured  forth  the  monoto 
nous  words  of  a  prayer  that  was  not  meant  to  be 
acceptable  in  Heaven  ;  and  soon,  in  the  pauses  of  her 
breath,  strange  murmurings  began  to  thicken,  gradu 
ally  increasing  so  as  to  drown  and  overpower  the 
charm  by  which  they  grew.  Shrieks  pierced  through 
the  obscurity  of  sound,  and  were  succeeded  by  the 
singing  of  sweet  female  voices,  which  in  their  turn 
gave  way  to  a  wild  roar  of  laughter,  broken  suddenly 
by  groanings  and  sobs,  forming  altogether  a  ghastly 
confusion  of  terror  and  mourning  and  mirth.  Chains 
were  rattling,  fierce  and  stern  voices  uttered  threats, 
and  the  scourge  resounded  at  their  command.  All 
these  noises  deepened  and  became  substantial  to  the 
listener's  ear,  till  she  could  distinguish  every  soft  and 
dreamy  accent  of  the  love  songs,  that  died  causelessly 
into  funeral  hymns.  She  shuddered  at  the  unprovoked 
z* 


290     THE     HOLLOW     OF     THE     THREE     HILLS. 

wrath  which  blazed  up  like  the  spontaneous  kindling 
of  flame,  and  she  grew  faint  at  the  fearful  merriment, 
raging  miserably  around  her.  In  the  midst  of  this 
wild  scene,  where  unbound  passions  jostled  each  other 
in  a  drunken  career,  there  was  one  solemn  voice  of  a 
man,  and  a  manly  and  melodious  voice  it  might  once 
have  been.  He  went  to-and-fro  continually,  and  his 
feet  sounded  upon  the  floor.  In  each  member  of  that 
frenzied  company,  whose  own  burning  thoughts  had 
become  their  exclusive  world,  he  sought  an  auditor  for 
the  story  of  his  individual  wrong,  and  interpreted  their 
laughter  and  tears  as  his  reward  of  scorn  or  pity.  He 
spoke  of  woman's  perfidy,  of  a  wife  who  had  broken 
her  holiest  vows,  of  a  home  and  heart  made  desolate. 
Even  as  he  went  on,  the  shout,  the  laugh,  the  shriek, 
the  sob,  rose  up  in  unison,  till  they  changed  into  the 
hollow,  fitful,  and  uneven  sound  of  the  wind,  as  it 
fought  among  the  pine  trees  on  those  three  lonely  hills. 
The  lady  looked  up,  and  there  was  the  withered 
woman  smiling  in  her  face. 

'  Couldst  thou  have  thought  there  were  such  merry 
times  in  a  Mad  House?'  inquired  the  latter. 

'True,  true,'  said   the  lady  to    herself;    'there   is 
mirth  within  its  walls,  but  misery,  misery  without.' 

'  Wouldst    thou    hear    more  T    demanded    the    old 
woman. 

'  There  is  one  other  voice  I  would  fain  listen  to 
again,'  replied  the  lady  faintly. 

Then  lay  down  thy  head  speedily  upon  my  knees, 


THE     HOLLOW     OF     THE      THREE     HILLS.    291 

that  thou  mayst  get  thee  hence  before  the  hour  be 
past.' 

The  golden  skirts  of  day  were  yet  lingering  upon 
the  hills,  but  deep  shades  obscured  the  hollow  and  the 
pool,  as  if  sombre  night  were  rising  thence  to  over 
spread  the  world.  Again  that  evil  woman  began  to 
weave  her  spell.  Long  did  it  proceed  unanswered,  till 
the  knolling  of  a  bell  stole  in  among  the  intervals  of 
her  words,  like  a  clang  that  had  travelled  far  over 
valley  and  rising  ground,  and  was  just  ready  to  die  in 
the  air.  The  lady  shook  upon  her  companion's  knees, 
as  she  heard  that  boding  sound.  Stronger  it  grew  and 
sadder,  and  deepened  into  the  tone  of  a  death-bell, 
knolling  dolefully  from  some  ivy-mantled  tower,  and 
bearing  tidings  of  mortality  and  woe  to  the  cottage,  to 
the  hall,  and  to  the  solitary  wayfarer,  that  all  might 
weep  for  the  doom  appointed  in  turn  to  them.  Then 
came  a  measured  tread,  passing  slowly,  slowly  on,  as 
of  mourners  with  a  coffin,  their  garments  trailing  on 
the  ground,  so  that  the  ear  could  measure  the  length 
of  their  melancholy  array.  Before  them  went  the 
priest,  reading  the  burial-service,  while  the  leaves  of 
his  book  were  rustling  in  the  breeze.  And  though 
no  voice  but  his  was  heard  to  speak  aloud,  still  there 
were  revilings  and  anathemas,  whispered  but  distinct, 
from  women  and  from  men,  breathed  against  the 
daughter  who  had  wrung  the  aged  hearts  of  her  pa 
rents, — the  wife  who  had  betrayed  the  trusting  fond 
ness  of  her  husband, — the  mother  who  had  sinned 


292     THE     HOLLOW     OF     THE     THREE     HILLS. 

against  natural  affection,  and  left  her  child  to  die. 
The  sweeping  sound  of  the  funeral  train  faded  away 
like  a  thin  vapor,  and  the  wind,  that  just  before  had 
seemed  to  shake  the  coffin-pall,  moaned  sadly  round 
the  verge  of  the  Hollow  between  three  Hills.  But 
when  the  old  woman  stirred  the  kneeling  lady,  she 
lifted  not  her  head. 

4  Here   has   been   a  sweet  hour's  sport !'   said  the 
withered  crone,  chuckling  to  herself, 


THE    VISION    OF    THE    FOUNTAIN. 


THE    VISION    OF    THE   FOUNTAIN. 


AT  fifteen,  I  became  a  resident  in  a  country  village, 
more  than  a  hundred  miles  from  home.  The  morning 
after  my  arrival — a  September  morning,  but  warm  and 
bright  as  any  in  July — I  rambled  into  a  wood  of  oaks, 
with  a  few  walnut  trees  intermixed,  forming  the  closest 
shade  above  my  head.  The  ground  was  rocky,  uneven, 
overgrown  with  bushes  and  clumps  of  young  saplings, 
and  traversed  only  by  cattle-paths.  The  track,  which 
I  chanced  to  follow,  led  me  to  a  crystal  spring,  with  a 
border  of  grass,  as  freshly  green  as  on  May  morning, 
and  overshadowed  by  the  limb  of  a  great  oak.  One 
solitary  sunbeam  found  its  way  down,  and  played  like 
a  goldfish  in  the  water. 

From  my  childhood,  I  have  loved  to  gaze  into  a 
spring.  The  water  filled  a  circular  basin,  small,  but 
deep,  and  set  round  with  stones,  some  of  which  were 
covered  with  slimy  moss,  the  others  naked,  and  of 
variegated  hue,  reddish,  white,  and  brown.  The  bot- 


296      THE      VISION      OF      THE      FOUNTAIN. 

torn  was  covered  with  coarse  sand,  which  sparkled 
in  the  lonely  sunbeam,  and  seemed  to  illuminate  the 
spring  with  an  unborrovved  light.  In  one  spot, 
the  gush  of  the  water  violently  agitated  the  sand, 
but.  without  obscuring  the  fountain,  or  breaking  the 
glassiness  of  its  surface.  It  appeared  as  if  some  living 
creature  were  about  to  emerge,  the  Naiad  of  the  spring, 
perhaps,  in  the  shape  of  a  beautiful  young  woman,  with 
a  gown  of  filmy  water-moss,  a  belt  of  rainbow  drops, 
and  a  cold,  pure,  passionless  countenance.  How  would 
the  beholder  shiver,  pleasantly,  yet  fearfully,  to  see  her 
sitting  on  one  of  the  stones,  paddling  her  white  feet  in 
the  ripples,  and  throwing  up  water,  to  sparkle  in  the 
sun  !  Wherever  she  laid  her  hands  on  grass  and  flowers, 
they  would  immediately  be  moist,  as  with  morning 
dew.  Then  would  she  set  about  her  labors,  like  a 
careful  housewife,  to  clear  the  fountain  of  withered 
leaves,  and  bits  of  slimy  wood,  and  old  acorns  from 
the  oaks  above,  and  grains  of  corn  left  by  cattle  in 
drinking,  till  the  bright  sand,  in  the  bright  water,  were 
like  a  treasury  of  diamonds.  But,  should  the  intruder 
approach  too  near,  he  would  find  only  the  drops  of  a 
summer  shower,  glistening  about  the  spot  where  he 
had  seen  her. 

Reclining  on  the  border  of  grass,  where  the  dewy 
goddess  should  have  been,  I  bent  forward,  and  a  pair 
of  eyes  met  mine  within  the  watery  mirror.  They 
were  the  reflection  of  my  own.  I  looked  again,  and 
lo !  another  face,  deeper  in  the  fountain  than  my  own 


THE      VISION      OF      THE      FOUNTAIN.      297 

image,  more  distinct  in  all  the  features,  yet  faint  as 
thought.  The  vision  had  the  aspect  of  a  fair  young 
girl,  with  locks  of  paly  gold.  A  mirthful  expression 
laughed  in  the  eyes  and  dimpled  over  the  whole  sha 
dowy  countenance,  till  it  seemed  just  what  a  fountain 
would  be,  if,  while  dancing  merrily  into  the  sunshine, 
it  should  assume  the  shape  of  woman.  Through  the 
dim  rosiness  of  the  cheeks,  I  could  see  the  brown 
leaves,  the  slimy  twigs,  the  acorns,  and  the  sparkling 
sand.  The  solitary  sunbeam  was  diffused  among  the 
golden  hair,  which  melted  into  its  faint  brightness,  and 
became  a  glory  round  that  head  so  beautiful ! 

My  description  can  give  no  idea  how  suddenly  the 
fountain  was  thus  tenanted,  and  how  soon  it  was  left 
desolate.  I  breathed  ;  and  there  was  the  face  !  I  held 
my  breath  ;  and  it  was  gone  !  Had  it  passed  away,  or 
faded  into  nothing?  I  doubted  whether  it  had  ever 
been. 

My  sweet  readers,  what  a  dreamy  and  delicious  hour 
did  I  spend,  where  that  vision  found  and  left  me ! 
For  a  long  time,  I  sat  perfectly  still,  waiting  till  it 
should  reappear,  and  fearful  that  the  slightest  motion, 
or  even  the  nutter  of  my  breath,  might  frighten  it 
away.  Thus  have  I  often  started  from  a  pleasant 
dream,  and  then  kept  quiet,  in  hopes  to  wile  it  back. 
Deep  were  my  musings,  as  to  the  race  and  attributes 
of  that  ethereal  being.  Had  I  created  her?  Was  she 
the  daughter  of  rny  fancy,  akin  to  those  strange  shapes 
which  peep  under  the  lids  of  children's  eyes?  And 

2A 


298        THE      VISION      OF      THE      FOUNTAIN. 

did  her  beauty  gladden  me,  for  that  one  moment,  and 
then  die  ?  Or  was  she  a  water-nymph  within  the  foun 
tain,  or  fairy,  or  woodland  goddess,  peeping  over  my 
shoulder,  or  the  ghost  of  some  forsaken  maid,  who  had 
drowned  herself  for  love?  Or,  in  good  truth,  had  a 
lovely  girl,  with  a  warm  heart,  and  lips  that  would 
bear  pressure,  stolen  softly  behind  me,  and  thrown  her 
image  into  the  spring? 

I  watched  and  waited,  but  no  vision  came  again.  I 
departed,  but  with  a  spell  upon  me,  which  drew  me 
back,  that  same  afternoon,  to  the  haunted  spring.  There 
was  the  water  gushing,  the  sand  sparkling,  and  the 
sunbeam  glimmering.  There  the  vision  was  not,  but 
only  a  great  frog,  the  hermit  of  that  solitude,  who 
immediately  withdrew  his  speckled  snout  and  made 
himself  invisible,  all  except  a  pair  of  long  legs,  beneath 
a  stone.  Methought  he  had  a  devilish  look  !  I  could 
have  slain  him  as  an  enchanter,  who  kept  the  myste 
rious  beauty  imprisoned  in  the  fountain. 

Sad  and  heavy,  I  was  returning  to  the  village.  Be 
tween  me  and  the  church  spire,  rose  a  little  hill,  and 
on  its  summit  a  group  of  trees,  insulated  from  all  the 
rest  of  the  wood,  with  their  own  share  of  radiance 
hovering  on  them  from  the  west,  and  their  own  solitary 
shadow  falling  to  the  east.  The  afternoon  being  far 
declined,  the  sunshine  was  almost  pensive,  and  the 
shade  almost  cheerful ;  glory  and  gloom  were  mingled 
in  the  placid  light;  as  if  the  spirits  of  the  Day  and 
Evening  had  met  in  friendship  under  those  trees,  and 


THE      VISION      OF      THE      FOUNTAIN.        290 

found  themselves  akin.  I  was  admiring  the  picture, 
when  the  shape  of  a  young  girl  emerged  from  behind 
the  clump  of  oaks.  My  heart  knew  her ;  it  was  the 
Vision  ;  but  so  distant  and  ethereal  did  she  seem,  so 
unmixed  with  earth,  so  imbued  with  the  pensive  glory 
of  the  spot  where  she  was  standing,  that  my  spirit 
sunk  within  me,  sadder  than  before.  How  could  I 
ever  reach  her  ! 

While  I  gazed,  a  sudden  shower  came  pattering  down 
upon  the  leaves.  In  a  moment  the  air  was  full  of 
brightness,  each  rain-drop  catching  a  portion  of  sun 
light  as  it  fell,  and  the  whole  gentle  shower  appearing 
like  a  mist,  just  substantial  enough  to  bear  the  burthen 
of  radiance.  A  rainbow,  vivid  as  Niagara's,  was  painted 
in  the  air.  Its  southern  limb  came  down  before  the 
group  of  trees,  and  enveloped  the  fair  Vision,  as  if  the 
hues  of  Heaven  were  the  only  garment  for  her  beauty. 
When  the  rainbow  vanished,  she,  who  had  seemed  a 
part  of  it,  was  no  longer  there.  Was  her  existence 
absorbed  in  nature's  loveliest  phenomenon,  and  did 
her  pure  frame  dissolve  away  in  the  varied  light  ?  Yet, 
I  would  not  despair  of  her  return ;  for,  robed  in  the 
rainbow,  she  was  the  emblem  of  Hope. 

Thus  did  the  Vision  leave  me  ;  and  many  a  doleful 
day  succeeded  to  the  parting  moment.  By  the  spring, 
and  in  the  wood,  and  on  the  hill,  and  through  the 
village  ;  at  dewy  sunrise,  burning  noon,  and  at  that 
magic  hour  of  sunset,  when  she  had  vanished  from  my 
sight,  I  sought  her,  but  in  vain.  Weeks  came  and 


300        THE      VISION      OF      THE      FOUNTAIN. 

went,  months  rolled  away,  and  she  appeared  not  in 
them.  I  imparted  my  mystery  to  none,  but  wandered 
to-and-fro,  or  sat  in  solitude,  like  one  that  had  caught 
a  glimpse  of  Heaven,  and  could  take  no  more  joy  on 
earth.  I  withdrew  into  an  inner  world,  where  my 
thoughts  lived  and  breathed,  and  the  Vision  in  the 
midst  of  them.  Without  intending  it,  I  became  at 
once  the  author  and  hero  of  a  romance,  conjuring  up 
rivals,  imagining  events,  the  actions  of  others  and  my 
own,  and  experiencing  every  change  of  passion,  till 
jealousy  and  despair  had  their  end  in  bliss.  Oh,  had  I 
the  burning  fancy  of  my  early  youth,  with  manhood's 
colder  gift,  the  power  of  expression,  your  hearts,  sweet 
ladies,  should  flutter  at  my  tale  ! 

In  the  middle  of  January,  I  was  summoned  home. 
The  day  before  my  departure,  visiting  the  spots  which 
had  been  hallowed  by  the  Vision,  I  found  that  the 
spring  had  a  frozen  bosom,  and  nothing  but  the  snow 
and  a  glare  of  winter  sunshine,  on  the  hill  of  the  rain 
bow.  '  Let  me  hope,'  thought  I,  '  or  my  heart  will  be 
as  icy  as  the  fountain,  and  the  whole  world  as  desolate 
as  this  snowy  hill.'  Most  of  the  day  was  spent  in  pre 
paring  for  the  journey,  which  was  to  commence  at  four 
o'clock  the  next  morning.  About  an  hour  after  supper, 
when  all  was  in  readiness,  I  descended  from  my  cham 
ber  to  the  sitting-room,  to  take  leave  of  the  old  cler 
gyman  and  his  family,  with  whom  I  had  been  an  inmate. 
A  gust  of  wind  blew  out  my  lamp  as  I  passed  through 
the  entry. 


THE      VISION      OF      THE      FOUNTAIN.        301 

According  to  their  invariable  custom,  so  pleasant  a 
one  when  the  fire  blazes  cheerfully,  the  family  were 
sitting  in  the  parlor,  with  no  other  light  than  what 
came  from  the  hearth.  As  the  good  clergyman's  scanty 
stipend  compelled  him  to  use  all  sorts  of  economy,  the 
foundation  of  his  fires  was  always  a  large  heap  of  tan, 
or  ground  bark,  which  would  smoulder  away,  from 
morning  till  night,  with  a  dull  warmth  and  no  flame. 
This  evening,  the  heap  of  tan  was  newly  put  on,  and 
surmounted  with  three  sticks  of  red  oak,  full  of  moist 
ure,  and  a  few  pieces  of  dry  pine,  that  had  not  yet 
kindled.  There  was  no  light,  except  the  little  that 
came  sullenly  from  two  half-burnt  brands,  without  even 
glimmering  on  the  andirons.  But  I  knew  the  position 
of  the  old  minister's  arm-chair,  and  also  where  his  wife 
sat,  with  her  knitting-work,  and  how  to  avoid  his  two 
daughters,  one  a  stout  country  lass,  and  the  other  a 
consumptive  girl.  Groping  through  the  gloom,  I  found 
my  own  place  next  to  that  of  the  son,  a  learned  colle 
gian,  who  had  come  home  to  keep  school  in  the  village 
during  the  winter  vacation.  I  noticed  that  there  was 
less  room  than  usual,  to-night,  between  the  collegian's 
chair  and  mine. 

As  people  are  always  taciturn  in  the  dark,  not  a 
word  was  said  for  sometime  after  my  entrance.  No 
thing  broke  the  stillness  but  the  regular  click  of  the 
matron's  knitting-needles.  At  times,  the  fire  threw 
out  a  brief  and  dusky  gleam,  which  twinkled  on  the 
old  man's  glasses,  and  hovered  doubtfully  round  our 

2A* 


302        THE      VISION      OF      THE      FOUNTAIN. 

circle,  but  was  far  too  faint  to  portray  the  individuals 
who  composed  it.  Were  we  not  like  ghosts  1  Dreamy 
as  the  scene  was,  might  it  not  be  a  type  of  the  mode 
in  which  departed  people,  who  had  known  and  loved 
each  other  here,  would  hold  communion  in  eternity  ? 
We  were  aware  of  each  other's  presence,  not  by  sight, 
nor  sound,  nor  touch,  but  *by  an  inward  consciousness. 
Would  it  not  be  so  among  the  dead  1 

The  silence  was  interrupted  by  the  consumptive 
daughter,  addressing  a  remark  to  some  one  in  the  cir 
cle,  whom  she  called  Rachel.  Her  tremulous  and 
decayed  accents  were  answered  by  a  single  word,  but 
in  a  voice  that  made  me  start,  and  bend  towards  the 
spot  whence  it  had  proceeded.  Had  I  ever  heard  that 
sweet,  low  tone  ?  If  not,  why  did  it  rouse  up  so  many 
old  recollections,  or  mockeries  of  such,  the  shadows  of 
things  familiar,  yet  unknown,  and  fill  my  mind  with 
confused  images  of  her  features  who  had  spoken, 
though  buried  in  the  gloom  of  the  parlor  ?  Whom 
had  my  heart  recognised,  that  it  throbbed  so  1  I  lis 
tened,  to  catch  her  gentle  breathing,  and  strove,  by 
the  intensity  of  my  gaze,  to  picture  forth  a  shape  where 
none  was  visible. 

Suddenly,  the  dry  pine  caught ;  the  fire  blazed  up 
with  a  ruddy  glow ;  and  where  the  darkness  had  been, 
there  was  she — the  Vision  of  the  Fountain !  A  spirit 
of  radiance  only,  she  had  vanished  with  the  rainbow, 
and  appeared  again  in  the  fire-light,  perhaps  to  nicker 
with  the  blaze,  and  be  gone.  Yet,  her  cheek  was  rosy 


THE      VISION      OP      THE      FOUNTAIN.       303 

and  life-like,  and  her  features,  in  the  bright  warmth  of 
the  room,  were  even  sweeter  and  tenderer  than  my 
recollection  of  them.  She  knew  me !  The  mirthful 
expression,  that  had  laughed  in  her  eyes  and  dimpled 
over  her  countenance,  when  I  beheld  her  faint  beauty 
in  the  fountain,  was  laughing  and  dimpling  there  now. 
One  moment,  our  glance^  mingled — the  next,  down 
rolled  the  heap  of  tan  upon  the  kindled  wood — and 
darkness  snatched  away  that  daughter  of  the  light,  and 
gave  her  back  to  me  no  more  ! 

Fair  ladies,  there  is  nothing  more  to  tell.  Must  the 
simple  mystery  be  revealed,  then,  that  Rachel  was  the 
daughter  of  the  village  }  Squire,  and  had  left  home  for 
a  boarding-school,  the  morning  after  I  arrived,  and 
returned  the  day  before  my  departure  ?  If  I  trans 
formed  her  to  an  angel,  it  is  what  every  youthful  lover 
does  for  his  mistress.  Therein  consists  the  essence  of 
my  story.  But,  slight  the  change,  sweet  maids,  to 
make  angels  of  yourselves  ! 


FANCY'S    SHOW    BOX 


' .-    . 


FANCY'S    SHOW    BOX. 


A    MORALITY. 


WHAT  is  Guilt  ?  A  stain  upon  the  soul.  And  it  is 
a  point  of  vast  interest,  whether  the  soul  may  contract 
such  stains,  in  all  their  depth  and  flagrancy,  from 
deeds  which  have  been  plotted  and  resolved  upon,  but 
which,  physically,  have  never  had  existence.  Must 
the  fleshly  hand,  and  visible  frame  of  man,  set  its  seal 
to  the  evil  designs  of  the  soul,  in  order  to  give  them 
their  entire  validity  against  the  sinner  1  Or,  while  none 
but  crimes  perpetrated  are  cognizable  before  an  earthly 
tribunal,  will  guilty  thoughts — of  which  guilty  deeds 
are  no  more  than  shadows — will  these  draw  down  the 
full  weight  of  a  condemning  sentence,  in  the  supreme 
court  of  eternity  ?  In  the  solitude  of  a  midnight 
chamber,  or  in  a  desert,  afar  from  men,  or  in  a  church, 
while  the  body  is  kneeling,  the  soul  may  pollute  itself 
even  with  those  crimes,  which  we  are  accustomed  to 


FANCY'S    SHOW    BOX. 

deem  altogether  carnal.     If  this  be  true,  it  is  a  fearful 
truth. 

Let  us  illustrate  the  subject  by  an  imaginary  example. 
A  venerable  gentleman,  one  Mr.  Smith,  who  had  long 
been  regarded  as  a  pattern  of  moral  excellence,  was 
warming  his  aged  blood  with  a  glass  or  two  of  generous 
wine.  His  children  being  gone  forth  about  their 
worldly  business,  and  his  grandchildren  at  school,  he 
sat  nlone,  in  a  deep,  luxurious  arm  chair,  with  his  feet 
beneath  a  richly  carved  mahogany  table.  Some  old 
people  have  a  dread  of  solitude,  and  when  better  com 
pany  may  not  be  had,  rejoice  even  to  hear  the  quiet 
breathing  of  a  babe,  asleep  upon  the  carpet.  But  Mr. 
Smith,  whose  silver  hair  was  the  bright  symbol  of  a  life 
unstained,  except  by  such  spots  as  are  inseparable  from 
human  nature,  he  had  no  need  of  a  babe  to  protect 
him  by  its  purity,  nor  of  a  grown  person,  to  stand 
between  him  and  his  own  soul.  Nevertheless,  either 
Manhood  must  converse  with  Age,  or  Womanhood 
must  soothe  him  with  gentle  cares,  or  Infancy  must 
sport  around  his  chair,  or  his  thoughts  will  stray  into 
the  misty  region  of  the  past,  and  the  old  man  be  chill 
and  sad.  Wine  will  not  always  cheer  him.  Such 
might  have  been  the  case  with  Mr.  Smith,  when, 
through  the  brilliant  medium  of  his  glass  of  old  Madeira, 
he  beheld  three  figures  entering  the  room.  These 
were  Fancy,  who  had  assumed  the  garb  and  aspect  of 
an  itinerant  showman,  with  a  box  of  pictures  on  her 
back ;  and  Memory,  in  the  likeness  of  a  clerk,  with  a 


FANCY'S    snow    BOX.  309 

pen  behind  her  ear,  an  ink-horn  at  her  button-hole,* 
and  a  huge  manuscript  volume  beneath  her  arm;  and 
lastly,  behind  the  other  two,  a  person  shrouded  in  a 
dusky  mantle,  which  concealed  both  face  and  form. 
But  Mr.  Smith  had  a  shrewd  idea  that  it  was  Con 
science. 

How  kind  of  Fancy,  Memory,  and  Conscience,  to 
visit  the  old  gentleman,  just  as  he  was  beginning  to 
imagine  that  the  wine  had  neither  so  bright  a  sparkle, 
nor  so  excellent  a  flavor,  as  when  himself  and  the 
liquor  were  less  aged !  Through  the  dim  length  of 
the  apartment,  where  crimson  curtains  muffled  the 
glare  of  sunshine,  and  created  a  rich  obscurity,  the 
three  guests  drew  near  the  silver-haired  old  man. 
Memory,  with  a  finger  between  the  leaves  of  her  huge 
volume,  placed  herself  at  his  right  hand.  Conscience, 
with  her  face  still  hidden  in  the  dusky  mantle,  took 
her  station  on  the  left,  so  as  to  be  next  his  heart ;  while 
Fancy  set  down  her  picture-box  upon  the  table,  with 
the  magnifying  glass  convenient  to  his  eye.  We  can 
sketch  merely  the  outlines  of  two  or  three,  out  of  the 
many  pictures,  which  at  the  pulling  of  a  string,  succes 
sively  peopled  the  box  with  the  semblances  of  living 
scenes. 

One  was  a  moonlight  picture ;  in  the  back  ground,  a 
lowly  dwelling;  and  in  front,  partly  shadowed  by  a 
tree,  yet  besprinkled  with  flakes  of  radiance,  two 
youthful  figures,  male  and  female.  The  young  man 
stood  with  folded  arms,  a  haughty  smile  upon  his  lip, 
2s 


310  FANCY'S    SHOW    BOX. 

•and  a  gleam  of  triumph  in  his  eye,  as  he  glanced  down 
ward  at  the  kneeling  girl.     She  was  almost  prostrate 
at  his  feet,  evidently  sinking  under  a  weight  of  shame 
and   anguish,    which    hardly  allowe'd   her    to  lift  her 
clasped  hands  in  supplication.     Her  eyes  she  could  not 
lift.     But  neither  her  agony,  nor  the  lovely  features  on 
which  it  was   depicted,  nor  the  slender  grace  of  the 
form  which  it  convulsed,  appeared  to  soften  the  obdu 
racy  of  the  young  man.     He  was  the  personification  of 
triumphant   scorn.     Now,  strange  to  say,  as  old  Mr. 
Smith  peeped  through  the   magnifying  glass,    which 
made  the  objects  start  out  from  the  canvas  with  magical 
deception,  he  began  to  recognise  the   farm-house,  the 
tree,  and  both  the  figures  of  the  picture.     The  young 
man,  in  times  long  past,  had  often  met  his  gaze  within 
the  looking-glass ;  the  girl  was  the  very  image   of  his 
first  love — his   cottage-love — his   Martha  Burroughs  ! 
Mr.  Smith  was  scandalized.     '  Oh,  vile  and  slanderous 
picture  !'  he  exclaims.     '  When  have  I  triumphed  over 
ruined  innocence  ?     Was  not  Martha  wedded,  in  her 
teens,  to  David  Tomkins,  who  won  her  girlish  love,  and 
long  enjoyed  her  affection  as  a  wife  ?     And  ever  since 
his  death,  she  has  lived  a  reputable  widow  !'     Mean 
time,    Memory  was    turning    over   the  leaves   of  her 
volume,  rustling  them  to  and  fro  with  uncertain  fingers, 
until,  among  the  earlier  pages,  she  found  one  which 
had   reference  to  this  picture.     She  reads  it,  close  to 
the  old  gentleman's  ear  ;  it  is  a  record  merely  of  sinful 
thought,  which  never  was  embodied  in  an  act ;  but, 


FANCY'S    SHOW     BOX.  311 

while  Memory  is  reading,  Conscience  unveils  her  face, 
and  strikes  a  dagger  to  the  heart  of  Mr.  Smith.  Though 
not  a  death-blow,  the  torture  was  extreme. 

The  exhibition  proceeded.  One  after  another,  Fancy 
displayed  her  pictures,  all  of  which  appeared  to  have 
been  painted  by  some  malicious  artist,  on  purpose  to 
vex  Mr.  Smith.  Not  a  shadow  of  proof  could  have 
been  adduced,  in  any  earthly  court,  that  he  was  guilty 
of  the  slightest  of  those  sins  which  were  thus  made  to 
stare  him  in  the  face.  In  one  scene,  there  was  a  table 
set  out,  with  several  bottles,  and  glasses  half  filled  with 
wine,  which  threw  back  the  dull  ray  of  an  expiring 
lamp.  There  had  been  mirth  and  revelry,  until  the 
hand  of  the  clock  stood  just  at  midnight,  when  Murder 
stept  between  the  boon  companions.  A  young  man 
had  fallen  on  the  floor,  and  lay  stone  dead,  with  a 
ghastly  wound  crushed  into  his  temple,  while  over  him, 
with  a  delirium  of  mingled  rage  and  horror  in  his 
countenance,  stood  the  youthful  likeness  of  Mr.  Smith. 
The  murdered  youth  wore  the  features  of  Edward 
Spencer  !  '  What  does  this  rascal  of  a  painter  mean  V 
cries  Mr.  Smith,  provoked  beyond  all  patience.  '  Ed 
ward  Spencer  was  my  earliest  and  dearest  friend,  true 
to  me  as  I  to  him,  through  more  than  half  a  century. 
Neither  I,  nor  any  other,  ever  murdered  him.  Was 
he  not  alive  within  five  years,  and  did  he  not,  in  token 
of  our  long  friendship,  bequeath  me  his  gold-headed 
cane,  and  a  mourning  ring?'  Again  had  Memory 
been  turning  over  her  volume,  and  fixed  at  length  upon 


...  ,• 

312  FANCY'S    SHOW    BOX. 

so  confused  a  page,  that  she  surely  must  have  scribbled 
it  when  she  was  tipsy.  The  purport  was,  however, 
that,  while  Mr.  Smith  and  Edward  Spencer  were 
heating  their  young  blood  with  wine,  a  quarrel  had 
flashed  up  between  them,  and  Mr.  Smith,  in  deadly 
wrath,  had  flung  a  bottle  at  Spencer's  head.  True,  it 
missed  its  aim,  and  merely  smashed  a  looking-glass  ; 
and  the  next  morning,  when  the  incident  was  imper 
fectly  remembered,  they  had  shaken  hands  with  a 
hearty  laugh.  Yet,  again,  while  Memory  was  reading, 
Conscience  unveiled  her  face,  struck  a  dagger  to  the 
heart  of  Mr.  Smith,  and  quelled  his  remonstrance 
with  her  iron  frown.  The  pain  was  quite  excrucia 
ting. 

Some  of  the  pictures  had  been  painted  with  so  doubt 
ful  a  touch,  and  in  colors  so  faint  and  pale  that  the 
subjects  could  barely  be  conjectured.  A  dull,  semi- 
transparent  mist  had  been  thrown  over  the  surface  of 
the  canvas,  into  which  the  figures  seemed  to  vanish, 
while  the  eye  sought  most  earnestly  to  fix  them.  But, 
in  every  scene,  however  dubiously  portrayed,  Mr. 
Smith  was  invariably  haunted  by  his  own  lineaments, 
at  various  ages,  as  in  a  dusty  mirror.  After  poring 
several  minutes  over  one  of  these  blurred  and  almost 
indistinguishable  pictures,  he  began  to  see,  that  the 
painter  had  intended  to  represent  him,  now  in  the 
decline  of  life,  as  stripping  the  clothes  from  the  backs 
of  three  half-starved  children.  '  Really,  this  puzzles 
me  !'  quoth  Mr.  Smith,  with  the  irony  of  conscious 


FANCY'S    SHOW    BOX.  313 

&+""^L*9 

'    *  -  .  )|HL  ~  * 

rectitude.  '  Asking  pardon  of  the  painter,  I  pronounce 
him  a  fool,  as  well  as  a  scandalous  knave.  A  man  of 
my  standing  in  the  world,  to  be  robbing  little  children 
of  their  clothes  !  Ridiculous  !' — But  while  he  spoke, 
.  Memory  had  searched  her  fatal  volume,  and  found  a 
page,  which,  with  her  sad,  calm  voice,  she  poured  into 
his  ear.  It  was  not  altogether  inapplicable  to  the 
misty  scene.  It  told  how  Mr.  Smith  had  been  griev 
ously  tempted,  by  many  devilish  sophistries,  on  the 
ground  of  a  legal  quibble,  to  commence  a  lawsuit 
against  three  orphan  children,  joint  heirs  to  a  con 
siderable  estate.  Fortunately,  before  he  was  quite 
decided,  his  claims  had  turned  out  nearly  as  devoid  of 
law,  as  justice.  As  Memory  ceased  to  read,  Con 
science  again  thrust  aside  her  mantle,  and  would  have 
struck  her  victim  with  the  envenomed  dagger,  only 
that  he  struggled,  and  clasped  his  hands  before  his 
heart.  Even  then,  however,  he  sustained  an  ugly 
gash. 

Why  should  we  follow  Fancy  through  the  whole 
series  of  those  awful  pictures  ?  Painted  by  an  artist 
of  wondrous  power,  and  terrible  acquaintance  with  the 
secret  soul,  they  embodied  the  ghosts  of  all  the  never- 
perpetrated  sins,  that  had  glided  through  the  life-time 
of  Mr.  Smith.  And  could  such  beings  of  cloudy 
fantasy,  so  near  akin  to  nothingness,  give  valid  evi 
dence  against  him,  at  the  day  of  judgment  ?  Be  that 
the  case  or  not,  there  is  reason  to  believe,  that  one 
truly  penitential  tear  would  have  washed  away  each 
SB* 


314  FANCY'S    SHOW    BOX. 

hateful  picture,  and  left  the  canvas  white  as  snow. 
But  Mr.  Smith,  at  a  prick  of  Conscience  too  keen  to 
be  endured,  bellowed  aloud,  with  impatient  agony,  and 
suddenly  discovered  that  his  three  guests  were  gone. 
There  he  sat  alone,  a  silver-haired  and  highly  venera 
ted  old  man,  in  the  rich  gloom  of  the  crimson-curtain 
ed  room,  with  no  box  of  pictures  on  the  table,  but 
only  a  decanter  of  most  excellent  Madeira.  Yet  his 
heart  still  seemed  to  fester  with  the  venom  of  the 
dagger. 

Nevertheless,  the  unfortunate  old  gentleman  might 
have  argued  the  matter  with  Conscience,  and  alleged 
many  reasons  wherefore  she  should  not  smite  him  so 
pitilessly.  Were  we  to  take  up  his  cause,  it  should 
be  somewhat  in  the  following  fashion.  A  scheme  of 
guilt,  till  it  be  put  in  execution,  greatly  resembles  a 
train  of  incidents  in  a  projected  tale.  The  latter,  in 
order  to  produce  a  sense  of  reality  in  the  reader's  mind, 
must  be  conceived  with  such  proportionate  strength  by 
the  author  as  to  seem,  in  the  glow  of  fancy,  more  like 
truth,  past,  present,  or  to  come,  than  purely  fiction. 
The  prospective  sinner,  on  the  other  hand,  weaves  his 
plot  of  crime,  but  seldom  or  never  feels  a  perfect 
certainty  that  it  will  be  executed.  There  is  a  dream 
iness  diffused  about  his  thoughts;  in  a  dream,  as  it 
were,  he  strikes  the  death-blow  into  his  victim's  heart, 
and  starts  to  find  an  indelible  blood-stain  on  his  hand. 
Thus  a  novel-writer,  or  a  damatist,  in  creating  a  villain 
of  romance,  and  fitting  him  with  evil  deeds,  and  the 


FANCY'S    SHOW    BOX.  315 

villain  of  actual  life,  in  projecting  crimes  that  will  be 
perpetrated,  may  almost  meet  each  other,  half  way 
between  reality  and  fancy.  It  is  not  until  the  crime  is 
accomplished,  that  guilt  clenches  its  gripe  upon  the 
guilty  heart  and  claims  it  for  its  own.  Then,  and  not 
before,  sin  is  actually  felt  and  acknowledged,  and,  if 
unaccompanied  by  repentance,  grows  a  thousand  fold 
more  virulent  by  its  self-consciousness.  Be  it  con 
sidered,  also,  that  men  often  over-estimate  their  capacity 
for  evil.  At  a  distance,  while  its  attendant  circum 
stances  do  not  press  upon  their  notice,  and  its  results 
are  dimly  seen,  they  can  bear  to  contemplate  it.  They 
may  take  the  steps  which  lead  to  crime,  impelled  by 
the  same  sort  of  mental  action  as  in  working  out  a 
mathematical  problem,  yet  be  powerless  with  compunc 
tion,  at  the  final  moment.  They  knew  not  what  deed 
it  was,  that  they  deemed  themselves  resolved  to  do. 
In  truth,  there  is  no  such  thing  in  man's  nature,  as  a 
settled  and  full  resolve,  either  for  good  or  evil,  except 
at  the  very  moment  of  execution.  Let  us  hope,  there 
fore,  that  all  the  dreadful  consequences  of  sin  will  not 
be  incurred,  unless  the  act  have  set  its  seal  upon  the 
thought. 

Yet,  with  the  slight  fancy-work  which  we  have 
framed,  some  sad  and  awful  truths  are  interwoven. 
Man  must  not  disclaim  his  brotherhood,  even  with  the 
guiltiest,  since,  though  his  hand  be  clean,  his  heart 
has  surely  been  polluted  by  the  flitting  phantoms  of 
iniquity.  He  must  feel,  that,  when  he  shall  knock  at 


316  FANCY'S    SHOW    BOX. 

the  gate  of  Heaven,  no  semblance  of  an  unspotted  life 
can  entitle  him  to  entrance  there.  Penitence  must 
kneel,  and  Mercy  come  from  the  footstool  of  the  throne, 
or  that  golden  gate  will  never  open ! 


"    ' 


DR.     HEIDEGGER'S    EXPERI 
MENT. 


K  a    & ' B  3  &0  9MS  1 3  H 


DR.     HEIDEGGER'S     EXPERI 
MENT. 


THAT  very  singular  man,  old  Dr.  Heidegger,  once 
invited  four  venerable  friends  to  meet  him  in  his  study. 
There  were  three  white-bearded  gentlemen,  Mr.  Med- 
bourne,  Colonel  Killigrew,  and  Mr.  Gascoigne,  and  a 
withered  gentlewoman,  whose  name  was  the  Widow 
Wycherly.  They  were  all  melancholy  old  creatures, 
who  had  been  unfortunate  in  life,  and  whose  greatest 
misfortune  it  was,  that  they  were  not  long  ago  in  their 
graves.  Mr.  Medbourne,  in  the  vigor  of  his  age,  had 
been  a  prosperous  merchant,  but  had  lost  his  all  by  a 
frantic  speculation,  and  was  now  little  better  than  a 
mendicant.  Colonel  Killigrew  had  wasted  his  best 
years,  and  his  health  and  substance,  in  the  pursuit  of 
sinful  pleasures,  which  had  given  birth  to  a  brood  of 
pains,  such  as  the  gout,  and  divers  other  torments  of 
soul  and  body.  Mr.  Gascoigne  was  a  ruined  politician, 


320     DR.    HEIDEGGER'S    EXPERIMENT. 

a  man  of  evil  fame,  or  at  least  had  been  so,  till  time 
had  buried  him  from  the  knowledge  of  the  present 
generation,  and  made  him  obscure  instead  of  infamous. 
As  for  the  Widow  Wycherly,  tradition  tells  us  that 
she  was  a  great  beauty  in  her  day ;  but,  for  a  long 
while  past,  she  had  lived  in  deep  seclusion,  on  account 
of  certain  scandalous  stories,  which  had  prejudiced  the 
gentry  of  the  town  against  her.  It  is  a  circumstance 
worth  mentioning,  that  each  of  these  three  old  gentle 
men,  Mr.  Medbourne,  Colonel  Killigrew,  and  Mr. 
Gascoigne,  were  early  lovers  of  the  Widow  Wycherly, 
and  had  once  been  on  the  point  of  cutting  each  other's 
throats  for  her  sake.  And,  before  proceeding  farther, 
I  will  merely  hint,  that  Dr.  Heidegger  and  all  his  four 
guests  were  sometimes  thought  to  be  a  little  beside 
themselves ;  as  is  not  urifrequently  the  case  with  old 
people,  when  worried  either  by  present  troubles  or 
woful  recollections. 

4  My  dear  old  friends,'  said  Dr.  Heidegger,  motion 
ing  them  to  be  seated,  '  I  am  desirous  of  your  assistance 
in  one  of  those  little  experiments  with  which  I  amuse 
myself  here  in  my  study.' 

If  all  stories  were  true,  Dr.  Heidegger's  study  must 
have  been  a  very  curious  place.  It  was  a  dim,  old- 
fashioned  chamber,  festooned  with  cobwebs,  and  be 
sprinkled  with  antique  dust.  Around  the  walls  stood 
several  oaken  bookcases,  the  lower  shelves  of  which 
were  filled  with  rows  of  gigantic  folios,  and  black- 
letter  quartos,  and  the  upper  with  little  parchment 


DR.    HEIDEGGER'S     EXPERIMENT.     321 

covered  duodecimos.     Over  the  central  bookcase  was 
a  bronze  bust  of  Hippocrates,  with  which,  according  to 
some   authorities,  Dr.  Heidegger   was   accustomed  to 
hold  consultations,  in  all  difficult  cases  of  his  practice. 
In  the  obscurest  corner  of  the  room  stood  a  tall  and 
narrow  oaken  closet,  with  its  door  ajar,  within  which 
doubtfully  appeared  a  skeleton.     Between  two  of  the 
bookcases  hung  a   looking-glass,  presenting  its  high 
and  dusty  plate  within  a  tarnished  gilt  frame.     Among 
many  wonderful  stories  related  of  this  mirror,  it   was 
fabled  that   the   spirits  of  all    the   doctor's    deceased 
patients  dwelt  within  its  verge,  and  would  stare  him  in 
the  face   whenever  he  looked. thitherward.     The  op 
posite  side  of  the  chamber  was  ornamented  with  the 
full-length  portrait   of  a  young  lady,   arrayed  in   the 
faded  magnificence  of  silk,  satin,   and  brocade,   and 
with  a  visage  as   faded   as  her  dress.     Above  half  a 
century  ago,  Dr.  Heidegger  had  been  on  the  point  of 
marriage   with  this  young  lady ;  but,   being   affected 
with  some   slight  disorder,  she  had  swallowed  one  of 
her  lover's  prescriptions,  and  died  on  the  bridal   eve 
ning.     The  greatest  curiosity  of  the  study  remains  to 
be  mentioned  ;  it  was  a  ponderous  folio  volume,  bound 
in   black  leather,  with  massive  silver  clasps.     There 
were  no  letters  on  the  back,  and  nobody  could  tell  the 
title  of  the  book.     But  it  was  well  known  to  be  a  book 
of  magic;  and  once,  when  a  chambermaid  had   lifted 
it,   merely  to  brush   away  the  dust,  the  skeleton   had 
rattled  in  its  closet,  the  picture  of  the  young  lady  had 


322     DR.    HEIDEGGER'S    EXPERIMENT. 

stepped  one  foot  upon  the  floor,  and  several  ghastly 
faces  had  peeped  forth  from  the  mirror ;  while  the 
brazen  head  of  Hippocrates  frowned,  and  said — *  For 
bear  !' 

Such  was  Dr.  Heidegger's  study.  On  the  summer 
afternoon  of  our  tale,  a  small  round  table,  as  black  as 
ebony,  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  sustaining  a 
cut-glass  vase,  of  beautiful  form  and  elaborate  work 
manship.  The  sunshine  came  through  the  window, 
between  the  heavy  festoons  of  two  faded  damask  cur 
tains,  and  fell  directly  across  this  vase ;  so  that  a  mild 
splendor  was  reflected  from  it  on  the  ashen  visages 
of  the  five  old  people  who  sat  around.  Four  cham- 
paigne  glasses  were  also  on  the  table. 

'  My  dear  old  friends,'  repeated  Dr.  Heidegger,'  may 
I  reckon  on  your  aid  in  performing  an  exceedingly 
curious  experiment  T 

Now  Dr.  Heidegger  was  a  very  strange  old  gentle 
man,  whose  eccentricity  had  become  the  nucleus  for  a 
thousand  fantastic  stories.  Some  of  these  fables,  to 
my  shame  be  it  spoken,  might  possibly  be  traced  back 
to  mine  own  veracious  self;  and  if  any  passages  of  the 
present  tale  should  startle  the  reader's  faith,  I  must  be 
content  to  bear  the  stigma  of  a  fiction-monger. 

When  the  doctor's  four  guests  heard  him  talk  of  his 
proposed  experiment,  they  anticipated  nothing  more 
wonderful  than  the  murder  of  a  mouse  in  an  air-pump, 
or  the  examination  of  a  cobweb  by  the  microscope,  or 
some  similar  nonsense,  with  which  he  was  constantly 


DR.    HEIDEGGER'S    EXPERIMENT.      323 

in  the  habit  of  pestering  his  intimates.  But  without 
waiting  for  a  reply,  Dr.  Heidegger  hobbled  across  the 
chamber,  and  returned  with  the  same  ponderous  folio, 
bound  in  black  leather,  which  common  report  affirmed 
to  be  a  book  of  magic.  Undoing  the  silver  clasps,  he 
opened  the  volume,  and  took  from  among  its  black- 
letter  pages  a  rose,  or  what  was  once  a  rose,  though 
now  the  green  leaves  and  crimson  petals  had  assumed 
one  brownish  hue,  and  the  ancient  flower  seemed  ready 
to  crumble  to  dust  in  the  doctor's  hands. 

'  This  rose,'  said  Dr.  Heidegger,  with  a  sigh,  '  this 
same  withered  and  crumbling  flower,  blossomed  five- 
and-fifty  years  ago.  It  was  given  me  by  Sylvia  Ward, 
whose  portrait  hangs  yonder  ;  and  I  meant  to  wear  it 
in  my  bosom  at  our  wedding.  Five-and-fifty  years  it 
has  been  treasured  between  the  leaves  of  this  old 
volume.  Now,  would  you  deem  it  possible  that  this 
rose  of  half  a  century  could  ever  bloom  again  ?' 

'  Nonsense  !'  said  the  Widow  Wycherly,  with  a 
peevish  toss  of  her  head.  '  You  might  as  well  ask 
whether  an  old  woman's  wrinkled  face  could  ever 
bloom  again.' 

'  See !'  answered  Dr.  Heidegger. 

He  uncovered  the  vase,  and  threw  the  faded  rose 
into  the  water  which  it  contained.  At  first,  it  lay 
lightly  on  the  surface  of  the  fluid,  appearing  to  imbibe 
none  of  its  moisture.  Soon,  however,  a  singular 
change  began  to  be  visible.  The  crushed  and  dried 
petals  stirred,  and  assumed  a  deepening  tinge  of  crim- 


324     DR.    HEIDEGGER'S    EXPERIMENT. 

son,  as  if  the  flower  were  reviving  from  a  death-like 
slumber  ;  the  slender  stalk  and  twigs  of  foliage  became 
green  ;  and  there  was  the  rose  of  half  a  century,  look 
ing  as  fresh  as  when  Sylvia  Ward  had  first  given  it  to 
her  lover.  It  was  scarcely  full-blown;  for  some  of 
its  delicate  red  leaves  curled  modestly  around  its  moist 
bosom,  within  which  two  or  three  dew-drops  were 
sparkling. 

'  That  is  certainly  a  very  pretty  deception/  said  the 
doctor's  friends;  carelessly,  however,  for  they  had 
witnessed  greater  miracles  at  a  conjurer's  show  :  '  pray 
how  was  it  effected  ?' 

'  Did  you  never  hear  of  the  "  Fountain  of  Youth?"  ' 
asked  Dr.  Heidegger,  '  which  Ponce  De  Leon,  the 
Spanish  adventurer,  went  in  search  of,  two  or  three 
centuries  ago  ?' 

'  But  did  Ponce  De  Leon  ever  find  it  ?'  said  the 
Widow  Wycherly. 

'  No,'  answered  Dr.  Heidegger,  '  for  he  never  sought 
it  in  the  right  place.  The  famous  Fountain  of  Youth, 
if  I  am  rightly  informed,  is  situated  in  the  southern 
part  of  the  Floridian  peninsula,  not  far  from  Lake 
Macaco.  Its  source  is  overshadowed  by  several  gigan 
tic  magnolias,  which,  though  numberless  centuries 
old,  have  been  kept  as  fresh  as  violets,  by  the  virtues 
of  this  wonderful  water.  An  acquaintance  of  mine, 
knowing  my  curiosity  in  such  matters,  has  sent  me 
what  you  see  in  the  vase.' 

'  Ahem  !'  said  Colonel  Killigrew,  who  believed  not 


DR.    HEIDEGGER'S    EXPERIMENT.      325 

a  word  of  the  doctor's  story  :  '  and  what  may  be  the 
effect  of  this  fluid  on  the  human  frame  V 

*  You  shall  judge  for  yourself,  my  dear  colonel,' 
replied  Dr.  Heidegger  ;  *  and  all  of  you,  my  respect 
ed  friends,  are  welcome  to  so  much  of  this  admirable 
fluid,  as  may  restore  to  you  the  bloom  of  youth.  For 
my  own  part,  having  had  much  trouble  in  growing 
old,  I  am  in  no  hurry  to  grow  young  again.  With 
your  permission,  therefore,  I  will  merely  watch  the 
progress  of  the  experiment.' 

While  he  spoke,  Dr.  Heidegger  had  been  filling  the 
four  champaigne  glasses  with  the  water  of  the  Fountain 
of  Youth.  It  was  apparently  impregnated  with  an 
effervescent  gas,  for  little  bubbles  were  continually 
ascending  from  the  depths  of  the  glasses,  and  bursting 
in  silvery  spray  at  the  surface.  As  the  liquor  diffused 
a  pleasant  perfume,  the  old  people  doubted  not  that  it 
possessed  cordial  and  comfortable  properties ;  and, 
though  utter  skeptics  as  to  its  rejuvenescent  power, 
they  were  inclined  to  swallow  it  at  once.  But  Dr. 
Heidegger  besought  them  to  stay  a  moment. 

4  Before  you  drink,  my  respectable  old  friends,'  said 
he,  '  it  would  be  well  that,  with  the  experience  of  a 
life-time  to  direct  you,  you  should  draw  up  a  few 
general  rules  for  your  guidance,  in  passing  a  second 
time  through  the  perils  of  youth.  Think  what  a  sin 
and  shame  it  would  be,  if,  with  your  peculiar  advan 
tages,  you  should  not  become  patterns  of  virtue  and 
wisdom  to  all  the  young  people  of  the  age  !' 
2c* 


The  doctor's  four  venerable  friends  made  him  no 
answer,  except  by  a  feeble  and  tremulous  laugh ;  so 
very  ridiculous  was  the  idea,  that,  knowing  how  closely 
repentance  treads  behind  the  steps  of  error,  they 
should  ever  go  astray  again. 

1  Drink,  then,'  said  the  doctor,  bowing  :  '  I  rejoice 
that  I  have  so  well  selected  the  subjects  of  my  experi 
ment. 

With  palsied  hands,  they  raised  the  glasses  to  their 
lips.  The  liquor,  if  it  really  possessed  such  virtues  as 
Dr.  Heidegger  imputed  to  it,  could  not  have  been 
bestowed  on  four  human  beings  who  needed  it  more 
wofully.  They  looked  as  if  they  had  never  known 
what  youth  or  pleasure  was,  but  had  been  the  offspring 
of  Nature's  dotage,  and  always  the  gray,  decrepit, 
sapless,  miserable  creatures,  who  now  sat  stooping 
round  the  doctor's  table,  without  life  enough  in  their 
souls  or  bodies  to  be  animated  even  by  the  prospect 
of  growing  young  again.  They  drank  off  the  water, 
and  replaced  their  glasses  on  the  table. 

f  6 

Assuredly  there  was  an  almost  immediate  improve 
ment  in  the  aspect  of  the  party,  not  unlike  what  might 
have  been  produced  by  a  glass  of  generous  wine, 
together  with  a  sudden  glow  of  cheerful  sunshine, 
brightening  over  all  their  visages  at  once.  There  was 
a  healthful  suffusion  on  their  cheeks,  instead  of  the 
ashen  hue  that  had  made  them  look  so  corpse-like. 
They  gazed  at  one  another,  and  fancied  that  some 
magic  power  had  really  begun  to  smooth  away  the 


DR.    HEIDEGGER'S    EXPERIMENT.     327 

deep  and  sad  inscriptions  which  Father  Time  had 
been  so  long  engraving  on  their  brows.  The  Widow 
Wycherly  adjusted  her  cap,  for  she  felt  almost  like  a 
woman  again. 

'  Give  us  more  of  this  wondrous  water  !'  cried  they, 
eagerly.  '  We  are  younger — but  we  are  still  too  old  ! 
Quick  ! — give  us  more  !' 

'  Patience,  patience  !'  quoth  Dr.  Heidegger,  who 
sat  watching  the  experiment,  with  philosophic  cool 
ness.  '  You  have  been  a  long  time  growing  old. 
Surely,  you  might  be  content  to  grow  young  in  half  an 
hour  !  But  the  water  is  at  your  service.' 

Again  he  filled  their  glasses  with  the  liquor  of  youth, 
enough  of  which  still  remained  in  the  vase  to  turn  half 
the  old  people  in  the  city  to  the  age  of  their  own 
grandchildren.  While  the  bubbles  were  yet  sparkling 
on  the  brim,  the  doctor's  four  guests  snatched  their 
glasses  from  the  table,  and  swallowed  the  contents  at 
a  single  gulp.  Was  it  delusion  !  Even  while  the 
draught  was  passing  down  their  throats,  it  seemed  to 
have  wrought  a  change  on  their  whole  systems.  Their 
eyes  grew  clear  and  bright ;  a  dark  shade  deepened 
among  their  silvery  locks ;  they  sat  around  the  table, 
three  gentlemen,  of  middle  age,  and  a  woman,  hardly 
beyound  her  buxom  prime. 

'  My  dear  widow,  you  are  charming  !'  cried  Colonel 
Killigrew,  whose  eyes  had  been  fixed  upon  her  face, 
while  the  shadows  of  age  were  flitting  from  it  like 
darkness  from  the  crimson  daybreak. 


328     DR.    HEIDEGGER'S    EXPERIMENT. 

The  fair  widow  knew,  of  old,  that  Colonel  Killi- 
grew's  compliments  were  not  always  measured  by  sober 
truth;  so  she  started  up  and  ran  to  the  mirror,  still 
dreading  that  the  ugly  visage  of  an  old  woman  would 
meet  her  gaze.  Meanwhile,  the  three  gentlemen  be 
haved  in  such  a  manner,  as  proved  that  the  water  of 
the  Fountain  of  Youth  possessed  some  intoxicating 
qualities;  unless,  indeed,  their  exhilaration  of  spirits 
were  merely  a  lightsome  dizziness,  caused  by  the  sud 
den  removal  of  the  weight  of  years.  Mr.  Gascoigne's 
mind  seemed  to  run  on  political  topics,  but  whether 
relating  to  the  past,  present,  or  future,  could  not  easily 
be  determined,  since  the  same  ideas  and  phrases  have 
been  in  vogue  these  fifty  years.  Now  he  rattled  forth 
full-throated  sentences  about  patriotism,  national  glory, 
and  the  people's  right ;  now  he  muttered  some  perilous 
stuff  or  other,  in  a  sly  and  doubtful  whisper,  so  cau 
tiously  that  even  his  own  conscience  could  scarcely 
catch  the  secret ;  and  now,  again,  he  spoke  in  meas 
ured  accents,  and  a  deeply  deferential  tone,  as  if  a 
royal  ear  were  listening  to  his  well-turned  periods. 
Colonel  Killigrew  all  this  time  had  been  trolling  forth 
a  jolly  bottle-song,  and  ringing  his  glass  in  symphony 
with  the  chorus,  while  his  eyes  wandered  toward  the 
buxom  figure  of  the  Widow  Wycherly.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  table,  Mr.  Medbourne  was  involved  in 
a  calculation  of  dollars  and  cents,  with  which  was 
strangely  intermingled  a  project  for  supplying  the  East 
Indies  with  ice,  by  harnessing  a  team  of  whales  to  the 
polar  icebergs. 


DR.    HEIDEGGER'S    EXPERIMENT.     329 

As  for  the  Widow  Wycherly,  she  stood  before  the 
mirror,  curtseying  and  simpering  to  her  own  image, 
and  greeting  it  as  the  friend  whom  she  love'd  better 
than  all  the  world  beside.  She  thrust  her  face  close 
to  the  glass,  to  see  whether  some  long-remembered 
wrinkle  or  crows-foot  had  indeed  vanished.  She  exam 
ined  whether  the  snow  had  so  entirely  melted  from  her 
hair,  that  the  venerable  cap  could  be  safely  thrown 
aside.  At  last,  turning  briskly  away,  she  came  with  a 
sort  of  dancing  step  to  the  table. 

'My  dear  old  doctor/  cried  she,  'pray  favor  me 
with  another  glass !' 

'  Certainly,  my  dear  madam,  certainly  !'  replied  the 
complaisant  doctor;  'see!  I  have  already  filled  the 
glasses.' 

There,  in  fact,  stood  the  four  glasses,  brim-full  of 
this  wonderful  water,  the  delicate  spray  of  which,  as  it 
effervesced  from  the  surface,  resembled  the  tremulous 
glitter  of  diamonds.  It  was  now  so  nearly  sunset,  that 
the  chamber  had  grown  duskier  than  ever ;  but  a  mild 
and  moon-like  splendor  gleamed  from  within  the  vase, 
and  rested  alike  on  the  four  guests,  and  on  the  doctor's 
venerable  figure.  He  sat  in  a  high-backed,  elaborately- 
carved,  oaken  arm-chair,  with  a  gray  dignity  of  aspect 
that  might  have  well  befitted  that  very  Father  Time, 
whose  power  had  never  been  disputed,  save  by  this 
fortunate  company.  Even  while  quaffing  the  third 
draught  of  the  Fountain  of  Youth,  they  were  almost 
awed  by  the  expression  of  his  mysterious  visage. 


330     DR.     HEIDEGGER'S    EXPERIMENT. 

But,  the  next  moment,  the  exhilarating  gush  of 
young  life  shot  through  their  veins.  They  were  now 
in  the  happy  prime  of  youth.  Age,  with  its  miserable 
train  of  cares,  and  sorrows,  and  diseases,  was  remem 
bered  only  as  the  trouble  of  a  dream,  from  which  they 
had  joyously  awoke.  The  fresh  gloss  of  the  soul,  so 
early  lost,  and  without  which  the  world's  successive 
scenes  had  been  but  a  gallery  of  faded  pictures,  again 
threw  its  enchantment  over  all  their  prospects.  They 
felt  like  new-created  beings,  in  a  new-created  universe. 

'  We  are  young !  We  are  young  !'  they  cried,  exult- 
ingly. 

Youth,  like  the  extremity  of  age,  had  effaced  the 
strongly  marked  characteristics  of  middle  life,  and 
mutually  assimilated  them  all.  They  were  a  group  of 
merry  youngsters,  almost  maddened  with  the  exuberant 
frolicksomeness  of  their  years.  The  most  singular 
effect  of  their  gaiety  was  an  impulse  to  mock  the  infir 
mity  and  decrepitude  of  which  they  had  so  lately  been 
the  victims.  They  laughed  loudly  at  their  old-fashioned 
attire,  the  wide-skirted  coats  and  flapped  waistcoats  of 
the  young  men,  and  the  ancient  cap  and  gown  of  the 
blooming  girl.  One  limped  across  the  floor,  like  a 
gouty  grandfather  ;  one  set  a  pair  of  spectacles  astride 
of  his  nose,  and  pretended  to  pore  over  the  blackletter 
pages  of  the  book  of  magic ;  a  third  seated  himself  in 
an  arm-chair,  and  strove  to  imitate  the  venerable  dignity 
of  Dr.  Heidegger.  Then  all  shouted  mirthfully,  and 
leaped  about  the  room.  The  Widow  Wycherly — if 


so  fresh  a  damsel  could  be  called  a  widow — tripped  up 
to  the  doctor's  chair,  with  a  mischievous  merriment  in 
her  rosy  face. 

'  Doctor,  you  dear  old  soul,'  cried  she,  '  get  up  and 
dance  with  me !'  And  then  the  four  young  people 
laughed  louder  than  ever,  to  think  what  a  queer  figure 
the  poor  old  doctor  would  cut. 

'  Pray  excuse  me/  answered  the  doctor,  quietly.  '  I 
am  old  and  rheumatic,  and  my  dancing  days  were  over 
long  ago.  But  either  of  these  gay  young  gentlemen 
will  be  glad  of  so  pretty  a  partner.' 

*  Dance  with  me,  Clara !'  cried  Colonel  Killigrew. 

'  No,  no,  I  will  be  her  partner !'  shouted  Mr.  Gas- 
coigne. 

She  promised  me  her  hand,  fifty  years  ago !'  ex 
claimed  Mr.  Medbourne. 

They  all  gathered  round  her.  One  caught  both  her 
hands  in  his  passionate  grasp — another  threw  his  arm 
about  her  waist — the  third  buried  his  hand  among  the 
glossy  curls  that  clustered  beneath  the  widow's  cap. 
Blushing,  panting,  struggling,  chiding,  laughing,  her 
warm  breath  fanning  each  of  their  faces  by  turns,  she 
strove  to  disengage  herself,  yet  still  remained  in  their 
triple  embrace.  Never  was  there  a  livelier  picture  of 
youthful  rivalship,  with  bewitching  beauty  for  the  prize. 
Yet,  by  a  strange  deception,  owing  to  the  duskiness  of 
the  chamber,  and  the  antique  dresses  which  they  still 
wore,  the  tall  mirror  is  said  to  have  reflected  the  fig 
ures  of  the  three  old,  gray,  withered  grandsires,  ridic- 


332     DR.    HEIDEGGER'S    EXPERIMENT. 

ulously  contending  for  the  skinny  ugliness  of  a  shriv 
elled  granddam. 

.But  they  were  young  :  their  burning  passions  proved 
them  so.  Inflamed  to  madness  by  the  coquetry  of  the 
girl-widow,  who  neither  granted  nor  quite  withheld  her 
favors,  the  three  rivals  began  to  interchange  threatening 
glances.  Still  keeping  hold  of  the  fair  prize,  they 
grappled  fiercely  at  one  another's  throats.  As  they 
struggled  to  and  fro,  the  table  was  overturned,  and  the 
vase  dashed  into  a  thousand  fragments.  The  precious 
Water  of  Youth  flowed  in  a  bright  stream  across  the 
floor,  moistening  the  wings  of  a  butterfly,  which,  grown 
old  in  the  decline  of  summer,  had  alighted  there  to 
die.  The  insect  fluttered  lightly  through  the  chamber, 
and  settled  on  the  snowy  head  of  Dr.  Heidegger. 

1  Come,  come,  gentlemen  ! — come,  Madam  Wych- 
erly,'  exclaimed  the  doctor,  '  I  really  must  protest 
against  this  riot.' 

They  stood  still,  and  shivered ;  for  it  seemed  as  if 
gray  Time  were  calling  them  back  from  their  sunny 
youth,  far  down  into  the  chill  and  darksome  vale  of 
years.  They  looked  at  old  Dr.  Heidegger,  who  sat  in 
his  carved  arm-chair,  holding  the  rose  of  half  a  century, 
which  he  had  rescued  from  among  the  fragments  of 
the  shattered  vase.  At  the  motion  of  his  hand,  the 
four  rioters  resumed  their  seats ;  the  more  readily, 
because  their  violent  exertions  had  wearied  them, 
youthful  though  they  were. 

'  My  poor  SylviaVrose  !'  ejaculated  Dr.  Heidegger, 


*-•  ''^Hk'  ' 

DR.    HEIDEGGER'S     EXPERIMENT.     "333 

holding  it  in  the  light  of  the  sunset  clouds :  '  it  ap 
pears  to  be  fading  again.' 

And  so  it  was.  Even  while  the  party  were  looking 
at  it,  the  flower  continued  to  shrivel  up,  till  it  became 
as  dry  and  fragile  as  when  the  doctor  had  first  thrown 
it  into  the  vase.  He  shook  off  the  few  drops  of  moist 
ure  which  clung  to  its  petals. 

'I  love  it  as  well  thus,  as  in  its  dewy  freshness/ 
observed  he,  pressing  the  withered  rose  to  his  withered 
lips.  While  he  spoke,  the  butterfly  fluttered  down 
from  the  doctor's  snowy  head,  and  fell  upon  the  floor. 

His  guests  shivered  again.  A  strange  chillness, 
whether  of  the  body  or  spirit  they  could  not  tell,  was 
creeping  gradually  over  them  all.  They  gazed  at  one 
another,  and  fancied  that  each  fleeting  moment  snatched 
away  a  charm,  and  left  a  deepening  furrow  where  none 
had  been  before.  Was  it  an  illusion  1  Had  the 
changes  of  a  life-time  been  crowded  into  so  brief  a 
space,  and  were  they  now  four  aged  people,  sitting 
with  their  old  friend,  Dr.  Heidegger  ? 

t  Are  we  grown  old  again,  so  soon  !'  cried  they, 
dolefully. 

In  truth,  they  had.  The  Water  of  Youth  possessed 
merely  a  virtue  more  transient  than  that  of  wine.  The 
delirium  which  it  created  had  effervesced  away.  Yes  ! 
they  were  old  again.  With  a  shuddering  impulse,  that 
showed  her  a  woman  still,  the  widow  clasped  her 
skinny  hands  before  her  face,  and  wished  that  the 


334     DR.    HEIDEGGER'S    EXPERIMENT. 

coffin-lid  were  over  it,  since  it  could  be  no  longer 
beautiful. 

'  Yes,  friends,  ye  are  old  again/  said  Dr.  Heidegger  ; 
'  and  lo !  the  Water  of  Youth  is  all  lavished  on  the 
ground.  Well — I  bemoan  it  not ;  for  if  the  fountain 
gushed  at  my  very  door-step,  I  would  not  stoop  to  bathe 
my  lips  in  it — no,  though  its  delirium  were  for  years 
instead  of  moments.  Such  is  the  lesson  ye  have  taught 
me!5 

But  the  doctor's  four  friends  had  taught  no  such 
lesson  to  themselves.  They  resolved  forthwith  to  make 
a  pilgrimage  to  Florida,  and  quaff  at  morning,  noon, 
and  night,  from  the  Fountain  of  Youth. 


. 


THE    END. 


CATALOGUE 


OF 


PUBLISHED   AND    SOLD   BY 
THE 

AMERICAN    STATIONERS'    COMPANY, 
BOSTON". 

The  Publishers  beg  leave  to  call  the  attention  of  Instructors  and 
School  Committees  to  the  list  of  School  Books  enumerated  be 
low.  It  is  their  aim  to  be  engaged  in  the  publication  of  such 
only  as  will  stand  the  test  of  criticism,  and  receive  the  approba 
tion  of  discriminating  Teachers  ;  and  also  to  have  their  Books 
manufactured  in  a  superior  manner. 


ARITHMETICS. 

THE  NORTH  AMERICAN  ARITHMETIC,  in  Three 
Parts.  By  FREDERICK  EMERSON,  late  Principal  of  the  Depart 
ment  of  Arithmetic,  Boylston  School,  Boston. 

PART  FIRST  is  a  small  book,  designed  for  the  use  of  chil 
dren  from  five  to  eight  years  of  age. 

PART  SECOND  contains,  within  itself,  a  complete  system 
of  Mental  and  Written  Arithmetic,  sufficiently  extensive  for 
common  schools. 

PART  THIRD,  for  advanced  scholars,  comprises  a  review 
of  the  elementary  principles  of  arithmetic,  with  a  full  develop 
ment  of  its  higher  operations. 

KEYS  to  Emerson's  Arithmetic,  for  the  use  of  Teachers. 

This  System  of  Arithmetic  is  the  result  of  five  years'  labor, 
which  the  author  entered  upon  with  a  view  of  preparing  a  stand 
ard  work,  that  would  justify  general  use  in  American  schools. 
The  effort  has  proved  completely  successful ;  and  the  ease  and 
rapidity  with  which  scholars  learn  arithmetic  from  these  books 
is  truly  gratifying.  The  recommendations  in  favor  of  the  work 
are  very  numerous  and  decisive  ;  they  are  from  gentlemen  who 
do  not  lend  their  names  to  give  countenance  to  indifferent  pub 
lications.  They  are  such  as  the  following : — 

WILLIAMS  COLLEGE,  Oct.  2,  1832. 
To  MR.  FREDERICK  EMERSON. 

Sir, — I  have  received  the  First  and  Second  Parts  of  your  North 
American  Arithmetic,  and  am  highly  pleased  with  the  plan  of  the" work,  and 
the  manner  of  its  execution  thus  far.  It  unites  simplicity  with  fulness,  and 
will  thus  be  sure  to  interest  the  beginner,  whilst  it  furnishes,  at  the  same  time, 
an  ample  guide  to  the  more  advanced  pupil. 

Respectfully  and  truly  yours, 

ALBERT  HOPKINS, 

Professor  of  Mathematics  and  Natural  Philosophy  in 
Williamstown  College. 


VALUABLE    SCHOOL    BOOKS  PUBLISHED 

CAMBRIDGE,  Oct.  31, 1834. 
To  THE  PUBLISHERS  OF  EMERSON'S  ARITHMETIC. 

Gentlemen, — I  have  examined  the  Third  Part  of  Mr.  Emerson's 
Arithmetic  with  great  pleasure.  The  perspicuity  of  its  arrangement,  and 
the  clearness  and  brevity  of  its  explanations,  combined  with  its  nappy  adap 
tation  to  the  purposes  of  practical  business,  are  its  great  recommendations. 
I  hope  it  will  soon  be  introduced  into  all  our  schools,  and  take  the  place  of 
ill-digested  treatises,  to  which  our  instructors  have  hitherto  been  compelled 
to  resort.  Respectfully,  BENJAMIN  PIERCE, 

Professor  of  Mathematics  and   Natural  Philosophy, 
Harvard  University. 

BURLINGTON,  15th  Feb.  1833. 

[Conclusion  of  a  letter  to  the  Author.'}  I  should  think  it  hardly  possible 
that  a  child  could  be  faithfully  conducted  through  these  two  works  [First  and 
Second  Parts]  without  being  vastly  better  acquainted  with  the  subject  than 
children  formerly  were.  Being  judiciously  compelled  in  some  measure  to 
invent  their  own  rules,  they  can  scarcely  fail  of  being  able  to  assign  a  proper 
reason  for  the  process,  as  well  as  to  recollect  it  for  future  use.  Indeed,  T  do 
not  know  any  one  particular  in  which,  for  the  use  of  very  young  pupils,  they 
could  be  improved.  Yours  resp'y,  JAMES  DEAN, 

Late  Professor  of  Mathematics  and  Natural  Philo 
sophy  in  the  University  of  Vermont. 

To  THE  PUBLISHERS.  BOSTON,  Nov.  10,  1834. 

I  have  carefully  examined  the  Third  Part  of  the  North  Ameri 
can  Arithmetic,  by  Mr.  Emerson ;  and  am  so  well  satisfied  that  it  is  the  best 
treatise  on  the  subject  with  which  I  am  acquainted,  that  I  have  determined 
to  introduce  it  as  a  text-book  into  my  school. 

Very  respectfully,  &c.,  yours. 

E.  BAILEY, 
Principal  of  the  Young  Ladies'  High  School,  Boston. 

FRIENDS'  BOARDING  SCHOOL,  Providence,  5  mo.  15,  1835. 
Notwithstanding  the  obvious  improvements  of  the  study,  both  in  a  practi 
cal  point  of  view  and  as  an  intellectual  exercise,  arithmetic  is  perhaps 
the  science  which  is  most  negligently  taught  in  common  schools,  and  the 
true  principles  of  which  are  left  in  the  greatest  obscurity  in  the  minds  of 
scholars.  One  reason  of  this  is  the  imperfection  of  the  common  treatises  used 
in  our  schools.  The  Arithmetic  of  Dr.  Adams  was  a  decided  improvement 
upon  its  predecessors  in  the  way  of  lucid  explanations,  and,  as  might  be  ex 
pected,  others  followed  which  went  still  farther  in  the  track  conductive 
illustration.  The  North  American  Arithmetic,  by  Frederick  Emerson,  ap 
pears  to  me  to  exhibit  the  science  in  a  manner  more  clear,  simple  and  prac 
tical,  better  adapted  to  the  use  of  schools  and  the  benefit  of  teachers,  who 
may  not  themselves  be  thoroughly  conversant  with  arithmetic,  than  any  book 
I  have  seen.  The  doctrine  of  Ratio  and  Proportion  is  treated  in  the  way  in 
which  it  can  alone  be  rendered  perfectly  intelligible  to  the  pupil,  and  far 
more  satisfactory  than  in  any  English  or  American  Arithmetic  that  has  fallen' 
under  my  notice.  J.  GRISCOM, 

Literary  Principal  of  the  Friends'  Boarding  School — 
late  of  the  New  York  High  School. 

MR.  EMERSON,  NEW  YORK,  June  20,  1835. 

Dear  Sir,— Having  examined  your  North  American  Arithmetic 
with  much  care,  and  made  some  use  of  it  as  a  text-book  in  my  classes,  I  do 
not  hesitate  to  regard  it  as  better  adapted  than  any  other,  to  the  schools  of 
the  United  States.  It  has  long  been  objected  to  the  books  on  this  subject  in 
common  use,  that  they  are  deficient  in  explanation,  and  unscientific  in  arrange 
ment;  more  apt  to  check  than  develop  the  powers  of  reasoning  and  calcu 
lation.  To  your  work,  certainly,  these  objections  are  inapplicable.  No 
pupil,  it  seems  to  me,  can  go  through  Parts  First,  Second,  and  Third,  with 


BY   THE    AMERICAN    STATIONERS1    COMPANY. 

ordinary  attention,  without  acquiring  a  facility  of  analysis,  a  readiness  both 
of  rule  and  reason,  and  a  dexterity  of  practice,  not  easily  to  be  derived  from 
any  other  books  yet  published.  Your  friend,  respectfully, 

WM.  J.  ADAMS, 
Frincipal  of  Classical  and  Commercial  School. 

The  Masters  of  the  Boston  Public  Schools,  Department  of 
Arithmetic,  make  the  following  statement: — 

We  have  considered  it  our  duty  to  render  ourselves  acquainted  with  the 
more  prominent  systems  of  arithmetic,  published  for  the  use  of  Schools,  and 
to  fix  on  some  work  which  appears  to  unite  the  greatest  advantages,  and  to 
report  the  same  to  the  School  Committee  of  Boston,  for  adoption  in  the  Pub 
lic  Schools.  After  the  most  careful  examination,  we  have,  without  any  hesi 
tancy,  come  to  the  conclusion,  that  Emerson's  North  American  Arithmetic 
[Parts  First,  Seconfl,  and  Third,]  is  the  work  best  suited  to  the  wants  of  all 
classes  of  scholars,  and  most  convenient  for  the  purposes  of  instruction.  Ac 
cordingly,  we  have  petitioned  for  the  adoption  of  the  work  in  the  Public 
Schools.  P.  MACKINTOSH,  JR.,  LEVI  CONANT, 

JAMES  ROBINSON,  J.  FAIRBANK, 

OTIS  PIERCE,  JOHN  P.  LATHROP, 

ABEL  WHEELER,  ABNER  FORBES. 

(t/^  At  a  meeting  of  the  School  Committee  of  Boston,  held  Nov. 
18,  1834,  it  was  voted,  unanimously,  "That  Emerson's  North 
American  Arithmetic  be  substituted  for  Colburn's  First  Les 
sons  and  Sequel." 

Among  others,  who  have  recommended  Emerson's  Arithme 
tic,  are — 

WALTER  R.  JOHNSON, 

Principal  of  the  Philadelphia  High  School. 
EDWARD  TURNER, 

Professor  of  Math,  and  Phil,  in  Middlebur?  College. 
JOHN  ADAMS, 

Principal  of  the  Phillips  Academy,  Andover. 

•  GEORGE  W.  KEELY, 

Professor  of  Mathematics  in  Waterville  College. 

A.  CASWELL, 

Professor  of  Mathematics  in  Brown  University. 
AMOS  EATON, 

Senior  Professor  in  the  Rensselaer  School. 
JAMES  HAMILTON, 

Prof.  Math.,  Nat.  Phil,  and  Astronomy  in  Nashville  Unir. 
8.  W.  SETON, 

Visitor  for  the  Public  School  Society,  New  York. 

B.  F.  JOSLIN, 

Professor  of  Natural  Philosophy,  Union  College. 
WILLIAM  WALL, 

Professor  of  Mathematics  in  Ohio  University. 
B-  M'GOWAN, 

Professor  of  Math,  and  Nat.  Phil.  St.  Louis  University. 
MERRITT  CALDWELL, 

Principal  of  the  Maine  Wesleyan  Seminary. 
E.  A.  ANDREWS, 

Principal  of  the  New  Haven  Young  Ladies'  Institute. 
J.  F.  JENKINS, 

Principal  of  Mechanics'  Society  School,  New  York. 


VALUABLE    SCHOOL    BOOKS    PUBLISHED 


IftEERSON'S    READING   BOOKS. 

I       1.  THE  FIRST-CLASS  READIER  ;  a  Selection  for  Exer- 
l  cises  in  Reading,  from  standard  British  and  American  Authors, 
j  designed  for  the  Use  of  Schools  in  the  United  States. 
i    .  2.  THE   SECOND-CLASS    READER  ;   designed  for  the 
j  Use  of  the  Middle  Class  of  Schools. 

3.  THIRD  CLASS  READER;  designed  for  the  Younger 
|  Classes  in  Schools. 

4.  THE    PROGRESSIVE    PRIMER    AND    FOURTH 
\  CLASS  READER  ;  a  First  Book  for  Children,  introductory  to 
\  the  National  Spelling  Book,  and  Third  Class  Reader. 

These  four  works,  prepared  by  Mr.  B.  D.  Emerson,  author  of 
the  "  National  Spelling  Book,"  and  other  highly-approved  school 
books,  form  a  series  of  Readers,  which  have  been  compiled 
chiefly  in  reference  to  the  condition  and  present  wants  of  the 
common  schools  of  our  country  ;  the  pupils  of  which  generally 
are,  or  advantageously  might  be,  organized  into  three  reading 
classes.  The  matter  contained  in  each  of  these  Readers  is  hap 
pily  adapted  to  the  intellectual  advancement  of  those  pupils  who 
may  be  supposed  to  hold  a  place  in  that  class  for  which  it  is  de 
signed  ;  the  style  and  sentiment  contained  in  each  Class  Book 
rising  in  proper  gradation  from  the  most  juvenile  of  the  series, 
to  that  of  the  most  maturity. 

These  Readers  are  confidently  recommended  to  all  who  have 
the  superintendence  of  education.  They  contain  nothing  sec 
tarian,  nothing  which  is  not  calculated  to  promote  unaffected 
devotion,  pure  morality,  diffusive  benevolence,  sound  patriotism, 
and  general  intelligence.  In  addition  to  these  general  traits  of 
character,  it  is  believed  that  the  Introductory  part  of  this  series, 
embraced  under  the  head  of  "  Suggestions  to  Teachers"  cannot 
fail  to  be  duly  appreciated  by  every  intelligent  schoolmaster. 

RECOMMENDATIONS. 

From  Professor  Hough,  of  Middlebury  College,  to  the  Publishers. 
Gentlemen,  —  I  have  examined  the  First  Class  Reader,  by  B.  D.  Emer 
son  ;  and,  in  my  view,  the  selections  are  judiciously  made,  and  charac 
terized  by  great  purity  and  elegance  of  style,  and  yet  are  not  so  elevated 
as  to  be  unintelligible  by  those  for  whose  use  it  is  designed.  The  work  is 
throughout,  so  far  as  I  have  discovered,  unexceptionable  in  the  sentiment 
with  which  it  is  fraught.  It  is  introduced  by  some  very  useful  "  Suggestions 
to  Teachers,"  with  regard  1o  the  examination  of  their  pupils  on  the  lessons 
read.  On  the  whole.  1  know  not  of  a  reading  book  of  higher  merit,  for  the 
more  advanced  classes  in  our  schools.  JOHN  HOUGH, 

Professor  of  Languages. 

From  Professor  Turner,  of  Middlebury  College. 

Gentlemen,  —  Allow  me  to  express  rny  cordial  approbation  of  the  selection 
of  pieces  introduced  into  the  First  Class  Reader.  In  correctness  of  senti 
ment,  manliness  of  style,  and  elegance  of  diction,  this  approaches  more 
nearly  than  any  of  the  previous  compilations  with  which  I  am  acquainted,  to 
what  a  book  should  be,  which  is  designed  to  be  a  reading  manual  for  youth. 
Yours  very  respectfully, 

EDWARD  TURNER, 
Professor  of  Math,  and  Nat.  Phil. 


BY    THE    AMERICAN    STATIONERS5    COMPANY. 

From  the  Principal  of  the  Abbot  Female  Academy,  Andover. 
To  THE  PUBLISHERS. 

I  have  carefully  examined  the  Reading1  Books  prepared  by  Mr. 
B.  D.  Emerscn,  and  cordially  bear  testimony  to  the  merits  of  the  work.  I 
am  much  pleased  with  the  character  of  the  selections,  and  highly  approve  of 
the  system  of  instruction  recommended  by  Mr.  E.  in  his  "  Suggestions  to 
Teachers.''  I  hope  these  books  will  gain  the  extensive  circulation  to  which 
they  are  justly  entitled.  S.  LAMSON, 

Principal  of  Abbot  Female  Academy. 

PHILADELPHIA,  April  5,  1834. 

Having  examined  the  series  of  School  Reading  Books,  entitled  the  "  First 
Class  Reader,"  the  "  Second  Class  Reader,"  and  the  "  Third  Class  Reader," 
by  B.  D.  Emerson,  the  undersigned  regard  them  as  having  very  high  claims 
to  the  notice  and  approbation  of  the  public.  The  books  form  a  regular  se 
ries,  carefully  graduated  according  to  the  advancement  of  classes  in  good 
English  Schools.  The  selections  are  very  judiciously  made,  both  in  matter 
and  style.  Each  piece  is  adapted  to  the  comprehension  of  the  scholar,  and 
conveys  some  useful  truth,  either  moral  or  scientific.  Specimens  are  pre 
sented  of  the  best  writers  in  the  English  language,  and  throughout  the  series 


is  given  a  very  great  deal  of  historical  and  general  information. 

These  considerations,  together  with  the  accuracy,  plainness  and  beauty  of  i 
the  printing  and  paper,  and  the  unusually  moderate  price  at  which  they  are   ; 
sold,  are  deemed  by  us  sufficient  to  authorize  this  public  testimonial  of  our 
approbation,  and  in  doing  so  we  cordially  recommend  Mr.  Emerson's  Read 
ers  to  the  teachers  throughout  the  United  States. 

S.  C.  WALKER, 

J.  B.  WALKER, 

Principals  of  Commercial  and  Classical  School. 


In  addition  to  the  above,  the  Publishers  beg  leave  to  state  that  these 
books  have  been  introduced  into  the  Preparatory  School  of  the  University  of  i 
Pennsylvania,  info  all  the  Public  Schools  in  Philadelphia,  andinto  very  many 
of  the  best  Schools  in  Pennsylvania,  New  York,  and  New  England. 

To  THE  PUBLISHERS. 

Having  examined  the  First  and  Second  Class  Readers,  compiled  by 
Mr.  B.  D.  Emerson,  I  take  great  pleasure  in  recommending  them  to  the  public,    i 
as  highly  deserving  their  patronage.     I  consider  these  works  a  decided  im-   i 
provement  upon  those  of  a  similar  character  now  in  use.     The  selections  are    i 
made  with  much  taste  and  judgment,  and  are  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  ca 
pacities  and  wants  of  those  for  whose  use  they  are  intended.     I  shall  intro 
duce  them  into  the  series  of  reading  books  used  by  my  pupils. 

W.  F.  SPEAR, 

Principal  of  the  Roxlmry  Female  High  School. 
I  fully  and  most  cordially  concur  in  the  above  recommendation. 

F.  S.  EASTMAN, 
Principal  of  the  Roxbury  Grammar  School.    j 

From  Benjamin  Greenleaf,  Esq.,  Principal  of  the  Bradford  Academy,  to   \ 
the  Author, 

BRADFORD  ACADEMY,  Nov.  25,  1834. 

Dear  Sir, — I  have  attentively  examined  your  series  of  Readers.     The  les 
sons  are  selected  with  much  taste,  and  are  well  calculated  to  produce  a  good   \ 
moral  influence.     It  is  desirable  that  these  works  should  be  extensively  used    i 
in  our  High  Schools  and  Academies.    Your  Third  Class  Reader  is  used  in 
all  our  District  Schools  and  highly  approved. 

Yours  very  respectfully,  BENJ'N  GREENLEAF. 

From  the  Lowell  Observer. 

EMERSON'S  CLASS  READERS.    *  *  *  *  The  selections  are  made  with  j 
reference  to  purity  of  sentiment,  and  to  moral  impression ;  and  are,  on  that 


VALUABLE    SCHOOL    BOOKS    PUBLISHED 


account,  worthy  of  all  commendation.  *  *  *  *  In  short,  we  can  say  of 
these  Readers,  that  we  know  of  no  books,  which,  for  beauty  of  selection., 
purity  of  sentiment,  and  for  variety  of  expression,  will  compare  with  them. 
The  sooner  they  are  introduced  into  our  schools  the  better. 

From  the  Annals  of  Education. 

THE  FIRST  CLASS  READER  AND  THE  SECOND  CLASS  READER. — 
*  *  We  are  pleased  with  these  selections,  for  we  think  they  are  executed  on 
the  plan  proposed  ;  that  "  each  extract  should  contain  some  useful  truth — 
something  of  more  importance  than  the  mere  amusement  of  a  passing  hour." 

To  THE  PUBLISHERS. 

Gentlemen,-^— Having  given  Mr.  Emerson's  Reading  Books  a 
careful  examination,  1  feel  confident  that  they  possess  merits  equal  to  those 
of  any  other  Readers  now  in  use.  The  experience  of  many  years  in  school- 
keeping  has  convinced  me  that  a  change  of  books  is  of  primary  importance 
in  acquiring  an  art  so  much  neglected,  yet  so  ornamental  and  useful  as  good 
reading.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  children  can  profit  much  by  reading 
again  and  again  what  has,  from  their  earliest  recollections,  been  sounded 
over  and  over  in  their  ears,  till  every  section  and  almost  every  word  are  as 
familiar  to  them  as  the  walls  of  their  school-room.  To  make  ready  readers 
there  is  need  of  some  novelty.  We  not  unfrequently  meet  with  those  who 
can  read  fluently  and  well  the  worn  pages  of  a  school  book,  but  yet  who 
hesitate  and  blunder  over  the  columns  of  a  newspaper,  or  the  pages  of  a 
strange  book.  I  am,  therefore,  glad  to  see  your  Readers,  and  it  will  give 
me  pleasure  to  encourage  their  introduction  into  our  schools. 
Yours  respectfully, 

WM.  COFFIN,  JR. 
Principal  of  the  Male  Department  of  Coffin  School,  Nantucket. 


WEBBER'S   ENGLISH   GRAMMAR. 

AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  ENGLISH  GRAMMAR,  on 

an  Analytical  Plan,  adapted  to  the  Use  of  Students  in  Colleges, 
and  the  Higher  Classes  in  Academies  and  Common  Schools. 
By  SAMUEL  WEBBER,  A.  M. 

The  great  fault  of  Murray  is  a  want  of  perspicuity.  The  definitions  are 
often  vague,  and  in  some  instances  a  definition  of  one  term  contains  another, 
that  is  not  explained  till  some  time  alter,  in  a  more  advanced  part  of  the  work  ; 
nor  do  the  definitions  seem  always  to  be  correct.  There  are,  besides,  often 
omissions  of  circumstances  of  importance ;  and  the  Syntax  presents  little  but 
a  chaos  of  rules  and  remarks,  without  any  guiding  principles  in  the  use  of 
language  and  the  construction  of  sentences. 

ft  seemed  to  the  author  that  the  way  to  correct  these  defects  was  to  ar 
range  the  whole  system  anew  ;  to  take  up  the  subject  from  the  very  begin 
ning,  and  pursue  it  more  analytically,  tracing  out  and  explaining  the  various 
natures,  properties  and  uses  of  words,  instead  of  defining  them,  and  drawing 
out  and  exhibiting  their  forms  and  modifications  from  the  different  purposes  to 
which  they  are  applied,  and  as  expressive  of  their  corresponding  changes  in 
signification  5  going  on  gradually  from  step  to  step,  and  as  far  as  possible 
making  each  step  clear  itself,  without  anticipating  any  thing  not  sufficiently 
obvious  to  persons  having  such  a  general  comprehension  of  the  meaning  of 
language,  as  to  fit  them  for  pursuing  a  subject  that  must  be  taught  by  lan 
guage  solely. 

The  American  Monthly  Review  says  of  Doct.  Webber's  Grammar,  "  The 
author  has  treated  the  subject  with  great  acuteness  :  he  has  resorted  to  ex 
planations  which  reward  examination,  by  imparting  a  well-defined  meaning, 
resulting  from  thorough  induction.  The  Syntax  surpasses  that  of  any  of  the 
Grammars  in  common  use  5  the  rules  are  expressed  with  great  care,  and 
generally  with  all  the  clearness  which  the  subject  admits.  We  think  the 
plan  of  the  Syntax  very  judicious  and  successful." 


BY    THE    AMERICAN    STATIONERS*    COMPANY. 

WheSpIey's   Compend   of"  History. 

A  COMPEND  OF  HISTORY  FROM  THE  EARLIEST  TIMES  ; 
comprehending-  a  General  View  of  the  Present  State  of  the  World. 
By  SAMUEL  WHELPLEY.  Seventh  Edition,  with  Corrections  and 
Improvements,  by  Rev.  JOSEPH  EMERSON,  Principal  of  the 
Female  Seminary  at  Wethersfield. 

Of  Whelplcy's  Compend,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Emerson  says,  in  the  Prospectus 
of  his  Female  Seminary,  "  For  many  years  I  have  been  solicitously  inquiring 
ibi  the  best  Compend  of  General  History  for  the  use  of  Schools.  That  which 
I  consider  by  far  the  best  which  I  have  yet  examined,  is  the  Compend  of  Mr. 
Whelpley.  My  estimation  of  this  work  has  been  rising  for  more  than  ten 
years,  while  I  have  been  engaged  in  reading  and  teaching  it  more  than  ten 
times  through.  It  is  not  a  mere  compilation  or  abridgment  in  the  words  of 
others  :  his  style  is  his  own — a  style,  perhaps,  not  less  distinctly  marked  than 
that  of  any  other  prose  writer  in  the  language." 


CONVERSATIONS  ON  THE  ANIMAL  ECONOMY; 

designed  for  the  Instruction  of  Youth,     By  ISAAC  RAY,  M.  D. 
Illustrated  by  numerous  Engravings. 

This  book  can  need  no  other  recommendation  than  that  it  was  made  by 
Doct.  Ray,  has  received  the  sanction  of  Professor  Cleaveland,  and  is  used  in 
many  of  our  most  respectable  seminaries. 

A  CATECHISM    OF    NATURAL    THEOLOGY.      By 

I.  NICHOLS,  D.  D.      "Every  house  is  builded  by  some  man. 
He  that  built  all  things  is  God." 

This  valuable  work  was  much  wanted,  especially  for  the  higher  classes  in 
our  Sunday  schools,  to  which  Paley's  admirable  treatise  on  the  same  sub 
ject  is,  on  many  accounts,  not  fitted.  The  general  style  of  the  latter,  it  is 
true,  is  incomparable,  and  many  of  the  author's  illustrations  are  among  the 
most  striking  and  beautiful  that  can  be  adduced  ;  and  of  these  Dr.  Nichols 
has  availed  himself  freely,  and,  for  the  most  part,  without  altering  the  ex 
pression.  But  Paley  committed  a  serious  error  in  the  very  outset,  consider 
ing  his  work  as  one  to  be  put  into  the  hands  of  the  young,  by  plunging  into 
some  of  the  most  abstruse  and  difficult  metaphysical  questions  on"the  athe 
istical  controversy ;  questions  for  which  his  readers  are  not  prepared,  and 
questions,  too,  it  most  be  confessed,  which  he  has  not  treated  with  much 
ability,  nor  even  with  his  accustomed  clearness,  nor  even  with  fairness.  Pa- 
ley,  also,  as  is  well  known,  was  not  an  adept  in  the  natural  sciences ;  in  con 
sequence  of  which  several  defects  and  a  few  serious  blunders  occur  in  his 
work,  which  are  but  imperfectly  corrected  and  supplied  by  Paxtoirs  Illustra 
tions,  and  the  excellent  notes  in  the  last  Boston  edition.  Dr.  Nichols  has 
had  this  edition  before  him,  and  other  recent  and  valuable  treatises  on 
the  same  and  kindred  subjects,  and  particularly  Dr.  Bell's  two  admirable 
numbers,  in  the  "  Library  of  Useful  Knowledge,"  on  Animal  Mechanics. 
With  these  materials,  he  lias  given  us  a  compilation,  which,  for  the  learning 
it  displays,  and  the  devotional  spirit  breathing  through  its  pages,  as  well  as ' 
for  its  literary  execution  and  genera!  appearance,  merits  a  much  higher  dis 
tinction  than  is  commonly  awarded  to  works  of  this  class.  The  present  edi 
tion  is  a  great  improvement  on  the  first,  as  regards  the  mechanical  execution. 
The  text  has  also  been  enlarged  about  one  seventh  part}  most  of  the  addi 
tions  consisting"  of  further  and  important  illustrations,  under  the  different 
heads,  borrowed  from  comparative  anatomy. — Christian  Examiner. 

This  valuable  work,  which  is  wholly  free  from  any  thing  of  a  sectarian 
character,  is  rapidly  coming  into  use  in  various  Academies,  and  the  higher 
classes  of  Sunday  Schools. 


VALUABLE    SCHOOL   BOOKS    PUBLISHED 

FRJEI¥CH    CLASSICS. 

WANOSTROCHT'S     FRENCH    GRAMMAR. This 

highly-esteemed  and  well-known  French  Grammar  needs  no 
commendation  at  the  present  day.  It  is  used  throughout  the 
country,  and  has  passed  through  a  great  many  editions  in  Lon 
don,  and  been  several  times  printed  in  Paris.  Its  extensive  use 
may  be  considered  a  sufficient  test  of  its  worth. 

FRENCH  WORD-BOOK  THE  EXPLANATORY  AND  PRO 
NOUNCING  FRENCH  WORD-BOOK  ;  or  First  Step  to  the  French 
Language.  Being  an  easy  Spelling-Book,  and  Vocabulary  of 
Three  Thousand  Words.  To  which  is  annexed,  the  French 
Phrase-Book.  By  M.  L'ABBE  BOSSUT. 

The  original  plan  of  this  little  manual  has  been  highly  appreciated,  and 
the  work  used  with  much  success ;  but  with  the  view  of  rendering  it  still 
more  useful  to  those  pupils  who  cannot  always  call  to  their  aid  the  services  of 
a  native  teacher,  and  also  to  assist  such  instructors  in  the  French  language 
as  may  not  be  perfectly  conversant  with  its  pronunciation,  the  editor  has  in 
this  edition  annexed  the  sound  and  articulation  of  each  word,  according  to 
the  approved  Dictionary  of  the  Abbe  Tardy. 

The  teacher  will  find  it  a  great  help ;  and  as  far  as  a  knowledge  of  three 
thousand  words,  and  a  great  many  familiar  and  idiomatic  phrases  will  go,  so 
far,  at  least,  the  young  English  scholar  may,  by  this  wo'k,  acquire  the  French 
language  and  idiom  without  the  aid  of  a  professional  in  ^tractor. 

LA  BAGATELLE  ;  intended  to  introduce  young  Children  to 
some  Knowledge  of  the  French  Language. — This  little  work  will 
be  found  interesting  to  very  young  children.  It  is  reprinted  with 
additions  and  improvements  from  the  English  edition,  which  his 
been  found  a  very  useful  and  popular  book  to  be  used  as  the  First 
Lessons  in  French. 

CHARLES  XII.  in  French,  by  VOLTAIRE;  with  English 
Notes,  for  Schools  and  Academies.  Stereotype  Edition. — This 
celebrated  Classic  is  now  too  extensively  used  in  Schools  and 
Academies  throughout  England  and  America  to  require  any 
comment. 

HENTZ'S  FRENCH  READER.  A  Classical  French 
Reader;  selected  from  the  best  Writers  in  that  Language,  in  Prose 
and  Poetry ;  attended  with  Notes  explanatory  of  Idioms,  &c., 
throughout  the  Work.  By  N.  M.  HENTZ,  A.  M.,  Professor  of 
Modern  Languages  in  the  University  of  North  Carolina. 

It  has  been  heretofore  a  great  disadvantage  in  teaching  French  in  this 
country,  thru  a  good  selection  from  authors  could  not  easily  be  obtained. 
The  compiler  of  this  work  has  availed  himself  of  the  experience  acquired  in 
several  years'  teaching,  and  hopes  he  has  produced  a  work  which  will  prove 
useful  and  satisfactory. 

BOYER'S  FRENCH  AND  ENGLISH  DICTIONARY.— 

This  is  far  superior  to  any  other  Dictionary  ever  published,  and 
the  demand  for  it  is  constantly  increasing. 


BY    THE    AMERICAN    STATIONERS5    COMPANY. 

LATIN    CLASSICS. 

FIRST  LESSONS  IN  LATIN,  UPON  A  NEW  PLAN, 

combining  Abstract  Rules  with  a  Progressive  Series  of  Practical 
Exeroises.  By  CHARLES  DEXTER  CLEVELAND.  Stereotype 
Edition  ;  used  in  the  Boston  Public  Latin  School. 

WALKER'S  LATIN  READER.  THE  NEW  LATIN  READ 
ER,  containing  the  Latin  Text  for  the  Purpose  of  Recitation,  ac 
companied  with  a  Key,  containing  the  Text,  with  a  Literal  and 
Free  Translation,  arranged  in  such  a  Manner  as  to  point  out  the 
Difference  between  the  Latin  and  English  Idioms.  For  the  Use 
of  Beginners  in  the  Study  of  the  Latin  Language.  By  S.  C. 
WALKER.  Philadelphia.  Fourth  Edition,  Stereotype. 

The  translations  consist  of,  Part  1,  Familiar  Latin  Phrases;  Part2;  Histo- 
riae  Sacrse  ;  Part  3,  Narrationes  Selectee. 

To  teach  the  Idiomatic  difference  of  the  Latin  or  Greek  languages  from 
the  English — the  most  difficult  part  of  the  labor  of  learning  a  language — is 
what  this  method  proposes  to  accomplish,  and  what,  in  our  opinion,  it  is  as 
suredly  able  to  accomplish.  We  have  not  a  doubt  that  a  clever  boi,  will  learn 
in  one  week  more  words,  and  more  of  the  idiomatic  difference  between  the  Eng 
lish  and  the  Latin  by  lliis  book,  than  he  will  by  the  use  of  a  grammar,  diction 
ary,  and  the  common  mode  of  ancient  instruction,  in  a  month. 

The  mode  of  teaching  after  the  plan  of  this  book  is  simply  this.  1.  It 
gives  the  literal  meaning  of  each  root  in  the  original.  2.  By  means  of  the 
prepositions  and  auxiliaries.it  gives  the  meaning  of  each  root,  as  modified  by 
inflection.  3  It  gives  a  translation  of  phrases,  or  idioms  by  which  the  true  im 
port  of  the  original  and  the  difference  of  the  idiom  are  learned  with  precision. 
4.  The  Latin  words  are  arranged  after  the  English  order  in  the  Key.  5.  The 
pupil  is  required  to  translate  from  the  pure  Latin  text,  at  the  latter  part  of 
the  book. 

The  pupil  begins  to  translate  and  study  grammar  at  the  same  time.  He 
is  directed  to  study,  for  recitation,  a  small  lesson  in  grammar;  and  by  the 
aid  of  the  Key  to  prepare  for  translation  a  suitable  portion  of  the  Latin  text. 
In  this  way  he  is  beguiled,  without  difficulty  or  pain,  into  a  knowledge  of  the 
first  principles  of  the  language,  and  in  a  little  time,  applied  to  other  similar 
exercises,  will  be  able  to  throw  away  these  mechanical  aids,  and  read  a 
Latin  author  without  them. — Flint's  Western  Review. 

We  regard  the  method  of  studying  Latin  proposed  by  Mr.  Walker  as 
very  decidedly  superior  to  the  prevailing  one.  It  is  recommended  by  phi 
losophy  as  well  as  by  common  sense.  It  is  a  mode  of  instruction  calculated 
to  interest  the  youngest  class  of  learners,  instead  of  perplexing  and  fatiguing 
them  in  the  manner  of  the  ancient  method.  It  is  particularly  suited  to  the 
purposes  of  maternal  instruction,  and  to  the  use  of  those  advanced  beyond 
the  period  of  childhood,  who  may  wish  to  instruct  themselves.  Lastly,  it  is 
admirably  calculated  for  the  purposes  of  monitorial  instruction. 

We  have  already  so  fully  borne  testimonv  to  the  general  merits  of  the 
system,  and  to  the  faithful  execution  of  this  work  in  particular,  that  it  is 
scarcely  necessary  to  add  a  cordial  recommendation  of  Mr.  Walker's  book 
to  teachers  and  parents  throughout  our  country. — Journal  of  Education. 

GILES'S  FIRST  BOOK  IN  LATIN,  on  a  New  Plan. 

LEMPRIERE'S  CLASSICAL  DICTIONARY,  for  Schoo 
and  Academies,  in  which  all  the  indelicate  passages  are  omitte, 

(Boston  Edition.)  / 

A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  WASHINGTON,  in  Latin  Pr£; 
By  FRANCIS  GLASS,  A.  M.     Edited  by  J.  N.  REYNOLDS. 
recommended  by  Professors  Anthon  and  Kingsley. 


VALUABLE  SCHOOL  BOOKS  PUBLISHED 


BLAKE'S    GEOGRAPHY. 

NEW   AMERICAN   UNIVERSAL   GEOGRAPHY,    for 

Schools  and  Academies,  on  the  Principles  of  Analysis  and  Com 
parison  ;  illustrated  with  thirty -two  Copperplate  and  Stereotype 
Maps,  besides  numerous  Engravings,  Tables,  and  Diagrams. 
By  Rev.  J.  L.  BLAKE,  A.  M. 

The  plan  of  this  work  contains  some  very  important  peculiar 
ities,  which  meet  the  eye  at  the  first  glance — so  apparent  that 
they  need  only  be  seen  in  order  to  be  appreciated.  From  an 
examination  of  the  sheets  before  the  book  was  bound,  orders 
were  received  for  about  4000  copies. 

The  form  is  imperial  octavo,  having  twelve  copperpl-ate  color 
ed  Maps  done  up  with  the  text.  It  is  also  illustrated  and  enrich 
ed  by  Diagrams,  Statistical  Tables,  and  a  large  number  of  stere 
otype  Maps  for  the  more  important  parts  of  Geography. 

It  will  be  seen,  from  an  examination  of  Blake's  NEW  GEOGRA 
PHY,  that  it  contains  three  or  four  times  as  much  matter  as  seve 
ral  of  the  School  Geographies  designed  to  hold  a  corresponding 
rank,  now  extensively  in  use,  while  at  the  same  time  the  price  is 
one  third  less.  The  pages  are  not  only  large,  but  are  filled  with 
closely-printed  columns,  instead  of  being  nearly  half  blank. 
Should  the  New  American  Universal  Geography  be  introduced 
into  schools,  where  scholars  will  be  unable  to  go  through  the 
whole  of  it,  the  extra  portions  contained  in  it,  as  will  be  readily 
perceived,  can  be  passed  over,  without  any  interruption  in  study 
ing  what  is  common  to  all  School  Geographies.  The  Historical 
Sketches,  and  the  description  of  cities  and  towns,  make  these 
extra  portions  of  the  volume,  which  are  so  arranged  in  separate 
divisions  as  to  have  no  perplexing  connection  with  the  other 
parts  of  it. 

Among  the  recommendations  which  have  been  given  are  the 
following : — 

To  THE  REV.  J.  L.  BLAKK. 

Sir, — Having  received  and  examined,  with  some  attention,  a 
copy  of  your  •'  American  Universal  Geography."  I  have  no  hesitation  in  giv 
ing  it  the  preference  to  other  works  intended  for  School  Geographies,  and 
for  the  following  reasons,  viz.  :  Your  Geography  contains  the  copperplate  < 
Maps  in  the  same  volume  with  the  text;  it  embraces  matter  far  greater  in 
quantity,  and  in  my  opinion  superior  in  quality ;  it  unites  History  with  Ge 
ography  as  History  and  Geography  should  be  united  ;  and,  finally,  its  value 
is  much  enhanced  by  the  stereotype  Maps.  Yours,  truly, 

B.  CUSHMAN 
Preceptor  Portland  Academy. 

Extract  of  a  Letter  from  tlie  Literary  Fraternity  of  Waterville   College.. 

From  a  cursory  examination,  we  feel  no  hesitation  in  expressing  our  de 
cided  approbation  of  Blake's  New  American  School  Geography.  The  form 
of  the  volume  being  such  as  to  admit  the  insertion  of  the  Maps,  together 
—:th  the  minuteness  of  detail  presented  by  the  author,  we  think,  gives  the 
•~k  a  decided  superiority  over  those  of  the  kind  now  in  use. 

general  plan  and  execution  of  the  work  we  cheerfully  approve, 
hi  behalf  of  the  Prudential  Committee  of  the   Literary  Fraternity  ol 
Waterville  College,  R.  GIDUIINGS.  Chairman 

\ 


BY    THE    AMERICAN    STATIONERS5    COMPANY. 


EMERSON'S   SPEULING  BOOKS. 

1.  THE  NATIONAL  SPELLING  BOOK.  This  work,  prepared  by 
B.  D.  EMERSOX,  iate  Principal  of  the  Adams  Grammar  School,  Boston,  is 
used  exclusively  in  the  Boston  and  Philadelphia  Public  Schools,  and  is 
extensively  used  in  New  England,  New  York,  and  the  Southern  and  West 
ern  States. 

«  The  ingenious  classification  of  the  words,  so  as  to  mark  accurately  the  sounds, 
not  only  of  the  accented,  but  of  the  unaccented  syllables  ;  the  conciseness  and  sim- 


introauction  ana  n.ey  ;  tne  atmnaance  ana  juaicious  arrangement  pi 
ntained  in  the  work,  and  its  faithful  mechanical  execution,  render  it,  in 
our  opinion,  decidedly  superior  to  any  Spelling  Book  with  which  we  are  acquainted." 
JOHN  FROST, 
ABRAHAM  ANDREWS, 


CORNELIUS  WALKER, 
N.  K.  G.  OLIVER, 
CHARLES  FOX, 
WM.  ADAMS, 
BARNUM  FIELD, 


Masters  in  the  Department  of 
Reading1  and  Grammar  in  the 
Public  Schools  of  Boston. 


"  This  Spelling  Book  bears  every  mark  of  having  been  compiled  with  strict  refer 
ence  to  the  actual  purposes  of  instruction.  Great  pains  have  evidently  been  taken  to 
render  it  highly  superior  in  character,  and  worthy  of  becoming  a  National  Work." 

Journal  of  Education. 

"  Having  carefully  examined  a  copy  of  the  National  Spelling  Book,  by  B.  D. 
Emerson,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that,  in  my  opinion,  it  is,  beyond  all  comparison, 
the  best  book  of  the  kind  with  which  I  am  acquainted." 

EBENEZER  BAILEY, 

Principal  of  the  Young  Ladies1  High  School,  Boston. 

"  This  Spelling  Book  is  the  result  of  the  labors  of  a  practical  and  popular  teacher ; 
and,  so  far  as  I  have  the  means  of  judging,  it  has  the  advantage  when  compared  with 
any  other  book  of  the  kind  that  has  ever  been  published,  either  in  Great  Britain  or  in 
the  United  States."  JOHN  PIERPONT, 

Compiler  of  the  American  First  Class  Book,  National  Reader,  fyc. 

"  The  plan  of  the  National  Spelling  Book  is  happily  devised  for  th«  aid  of  school 
teachers,  and  for  the  intellectual  improvement  of  scholars.  It  is  very  desirable  that 
it  be  universally  introduced.  Send  me  a  hundred  to  be  introduced  in  this  region. 

Yours,  &c."  ANDREW  YATES, 

President  of  the  Polytechnic  Institution,  Chittenango,  New  York. 

"  Having  examined  with  some  care  the  National  Spelling  Book,  compiled  by  B.  D. 
Emerson,  we  cheerfully  express  our  approbation  of  the  work.  We  recommend  tho 
work  to  the  school  committees,  instructors,  and  others  concerned  in  directing  com 
mon  education  throughout  our  country." 

B.  B.  WISNER,  D.  D.,  and  WILLIAM  JENKS,  D.  D.,  Boston. 

JEREMIAH  EVARTS,  Cor.  Sec.  Jim.  Board  of  Com.  for  Foreign  Missions. 

FRANCIS  WAYLAND,  Jr.,  D.  D.,  President  Brown  University. 

B.  F.  FARNSWORTH,  AcdAem.  and  Theolog.  Inst.,  New  Hampton,  N.  H. 

Rev.  S.  C.  LOVELAND,  Reading,  Vt.,  Author  of  a  Greek  and  English  Lexicon 
of  the  New  Testament. 

DANIEL  ADAMS,  M.  D.,  Author  of  the  Scholar's  Arithmetic,  fyc. 

Rev.  N.  BOUTON,  Concord,  N.  H.     Rev.  N.  W.  WILLIAMS,  Do. 

"  We  have  examined  Mr.  B.  D.  Emerson's  Spelling  Book  with  care  and  satisfac 
tion.  We  think  it  contains  improvements  on  initiatory  books  of  the  same  class 
heretofore  used." 

LEVI  HEDGE,  LL.  D.,  and  SIDNEY  WILLARD,  A.  M., 

Professors  Harvard  University. 

"  I  must  say,  I  like  the  National  Spelling  Book  better  than  any  other  I  ever  saw ; 
and  I  have  seen  many."  I.  I.  HITCHCOCK,  Instructor.,  Baltimore. 

"  I  think  the  National  Spelling  Book  deserving  of  ample  consideration,  by  teachers 
and  committees  intrusted  with  the  selection  of  school  books." 

WALTER  R.  JOHNSON, 
Principal  of  the  High  School,  Franklin  Institute,  Philadelphia. 

"  In  the  most  flattering  recommendations  of  Emerson's  Spelling  Book  we  fully 
concur,  and  we  would  cordially  recommend  it  to  our  citizens  as  being,  in  our  opinion, 
better  adapted  for  general  use  in  our  district  schools  than  any  other." 

L.  COLEMAN,  M.  LAWRENCE,  M.  SHAW,  School  Com.  of  Belchertown. 


VALUABLE  SCHOOL  BOOKS  PUBLISHED 


It  has  likewise  received  the  approbation  of  BENJA.  A.  GOULD,  late  Principal 
of  the  Public  Latin  Orammar  School,  Boston— Capt.  PARTRIDGE,  Scientific  and 
Military  Academy,  Middletovm—JOHN  RICHARDSON,  Leicester  Academy— R.  G. 
PARKER,  Rozbury. 

2.  THE  INTRODUCTION    TO   THE    NATIONAL  SPELLING 
BOOK;   for  the  use  of  Primary  Schools. 

3.  THE  NEW  NATIONAL  SPELLING  BOOK.    This  work  may 
properly  be  called  a  revised  and  improved  version  of  the  old  National  Spell 
ing"  Book  (meaning  that  now  in  general  use).     The  principal  improvements 
are  as  follows :— The  k  in  such  words  as  publick,  frolick,  and  the  u  in  such 
words  as  honour ,  favour ,  &c.,  are  omitted  ;  the  Key  is  rendered  more  simple; 
and  additional  progressive  reading  lessons,  illustrated  by  cuts,  are  introduced. 
In  its  present  popular  form,  it  is  believed  to  be  better  adapted  to  the  wants  of 
the  common  schools  of  our  country,  than  any  other  spelling  book  ever  pre 
sented  to  the  public. 

*  *     *      «  No  book  enjoys  a  greater  or  more  justly  deserved  reputation  than  the 
National  Spelling  Book,  by  B.  D.  Emerson,  of  which  this  work  is  a  revision  by  the 
original  author,  and  it  is  evidently  an  improvement  upon  its  predecessor." — Dover  Oaz. 

*  *     *     *      "  This  work  is  decidedly  an  improvement  upon  the  former,  by  the 
same  author.     The  Key  is  more  simple ;  the  reading  lessons  are  more  judiciously 
selected ;  and  the  arrangement  is  improved."  Annals  of  Education. 


American   Common-Place   Books   of 
Poetry   and   Prose. 

1.  THE    AMERICAN  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK  OF  POETRY, 
with  Occasional  Notes.    By  G.  B.  CHEEVKR. 

2.  THE  AMERICAN  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  PROSE  ;    a 

Collection  of  Eloquent  and  Interesting  Extracts  from  the  Writings  of  Amer 
ican  Authors.    By  G.  B.  CHEEVER. 

9^=  These  volumes  are  selected  entirely  from  American  authors,  and  contain  spe 
cimens  of  American  literature  from  its  earliest  period  to  the  present  day.  All  the 
pieces  are  of  the  purest  moral  character.  They  are  intended  as  reading  books  for 
the  higher  classes  in  seminaries  for  both  sexes,  and  will  be  found,  it  is  thought,  well 
adapted  to  a  department  of  education  in  which  it  is  difficult  to  find  a  volume  of  suit 
able  character.  They  will  also  serve  as  a  pleasant  mental  recreation  for  the  fireside. 
They  are  used  in  all  the  leading  High  Schools  in  this  country,  and  also  in  many  of 
the  most  distinguished  in  Great  Britain. 

"  THE  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  POETRY. — The  Americans  complain 
bitterly,  and  with  some  appearance  of  justice,  that  their  poets  have  been  undeservedly 
neglected  by  the  people  of  England.  This  they  ascribe  to  envy,  to  jealousy,  to  the 
affected  contempt  for  everything  American,  once  so  fashionable  among  our  literary 
coxcombs  ;  forgetting  that  Irving,"  and  Bryant,  and  Channing,  furnish  indisputable 
proof  of  the  respect  shown  to  transatlantic  talent. 

"  The  greater,  and  far  the  better  part  of  American  poetry,  is  of  the  class  usually 
called  occasional  and  fugitive ;  and  to  this  cause,  principally,  must  be  attributed  the 
ignorance  of  our  countrymen  on  the  subject.  Mr.  Cheever  has  performed  a  commen 
dable  task  in  collecting  the  scattered  gems  that  were  spread  over  a  wide  extent  of 
pamphlets  and  periodicals.  Every  piece  he  has  inserted  well  merits  a  place  in  the 
collection.  The  preface,  and  the  few  notes  written  by  the  editor,  are  very  valuable, 
and  prove  that  he  has  a  mind  capable  of  comprehending  the  highest  beauties  of  poetry, 
and  the  still  more  rare  qualification  of  imaginative  taste  controlled  by  critical  sa 
gacity."  London  Atheneum. 

"  It  may  be  said  of  the  American  Common-Place  Book  of  Poetry,  as  the  Eng 
lish  reviewers  said  of  the  Common-Place  Book  of  Prose,  that  '  it  is,  in  fact,  any 
thing  but  common-place.'  The  selections  are  made  with  great  impartiality,  and  nre 
distinguished  by  purity  of  taste,  and  a  pervading  tone  of  devotional  feeling  On  the 
whole,  we  think  such  a  book  could  not  have  been  compiled  better.  Among  throe  or 
four  hundred  extiacts,  there  are  none  which  the  tasteful  reader  regrets  to  see  ;  there 
are  none  which  are  not  creditable  to  our  moral  and  intellectual  character  as  a  nation. 
There  is  something  so  purifying  in  the  influence  of  good  poetry,  that  young  people 
cannot  be  too  much  encouraged  in  forming  a  taste  for  it;  and  we  know  of  no  compila 
tion  more  likely  to  form  a  correct  taste,  than  Mr.  Cheever's  American  Common-Place 
Book  of  Poetry.1  Massachusetts  Journal 


BY    THE    AMERICAN    STATIONERS'    COMPANY. 


BALBI'S 

AN  ABRIDGMENT  OF  UNIVERSAL  GEOGRAPHY, 
MODERN  AND  ANCIENT,  chiefly  compiled  from  the 
Abrege  de  Geographic  of  ADRIAN  BALBI.  By  T.  G.  BRAD 
FORD  ;  aecompanied  by  a  valuable  Atlas,  and  illustrated  by 
Engravings. 

The  above  work  contains  520  pages,  12mo.,  and  is  the  most  copious  School 
Geography  yet  offered  to  the  public,  and  it  is  believed  to  be  an  important 
improvement,  especially  for  the  use  of  the  higher  schools  and  seminaries.  It 
has  received  the  sanction  of  all  teachers  who  have  examined  it,  and  has  been 
favorably  noticed  in  many  of  our  public  journals.  The  Atlas  accompanying1 
this  work  contains  thirty-six  maps  and  charts,  and  is  confidently  recommend 
ed  as  superior,  in  every  respect,  to  any  thing  of  the  kind  now  in  use.  From 
the  numerous  notices  of  the  work,  the  publishers  present  the  following  : — 

From  the  Rev.  J.  M.  Matthews,  D.  D.,  Chancellor  of  New  York  University. 
I  have  looked  over  Balbi's  Geography,  and  the  Atlas  accompanying1  it. 
The  arrangement  and  execution  of  both  the  works  are  such  as  to  render 
them  a  valuable  acquisition  to  our  schools.  I  hope  they  will  meet  the  patron 
age  which  they  so  well  merit. 

From  the  Rev.  George  Bush,  Professor  of  Hebrew  and  Oriental  Literature, 

New  York  University. 

From  the  examination  I  have  been  able  to  bestow  upon  Balbi's  Geography 
and  Atlas,  I  am  fully  satisfied  of  its  claims  to  general  patronage.  As  a  man 
ual  of  geography  and  statistics,  at  once  compendious  and  complete,  I  am 
not  acquainted  with  any  so  highly  deserving  the  attention  of  those  who  are 
placed  at  the  head  of  our  literary  institutions. 

From  8.  Johnston,  Esq.,  Principal  of  an  English  and  Classical  School, 

New  York. 

The  examination  of  Balbi's  Geography  and  Atlas  has  afforded  me  much 
pleasure.  I  highly  approve  of  its  arrangement,  which,  with  the  new  matter 
it  contains  relative" to  Canals  and  Railroads,  &c.,  renders  it  a  valuable  text 
book  for  our  more  advanced  schools.  As  a  proof  of  my  approbation  of  the 
book,  I  have  resolved  to  adopt  it  in  my  first  class. 

From  Mr.  J.  F.  Jenkins,  Principal  of  the  Mechanics'  Society  Institute,  New 
York. 

NEW  YORK,  Sept.  11,  1835. 

Having  examined  Bradford's  edition  of  Balbi's  Geography,  I  am  happy  to 
state  my  conviction  that  it  is  a  valuable  work.  The  arrangement  of  a  greater 
amount  than  usual  of  important  information,  is  judicious  throughout,  and  the 
number,  neatness  and  accuracy  of  the  accompanying  maps,  give  it  a  decided 
superiority  over  most  of  the  geographical  treatises  in  use,  and  render  it 
peculiarly  suitable  for  the  highest  classes  of  students. 

From  Mr.  A.  Clarke,  Principal  of  the  Owego  Academy,  Tioga  County, 

New   York. 

I  have  examined,  with  much  pleasure,  Bradford's  edition  of  Balbi's  Geog 
raphy  and  Atlas.  With  the  arrangement  of  subjects  I  am  particularly 
pleased.  The  student  is  at  one/*  made  acquainted  with  the  more  easy  and 
interesting  geography  of  his  own  country,  and  is  then  introduced  to  other 
portions  of  the  world,  arranged  somewhat  in  the  order  of  their  importance. 
I  think  that  this,  with  the  valuable  Atlas  accompanying  it,  will  be  well  re 
ceived  by  an  intelligent  public. 

From  the  New  York  Morning  News. 

It  has,  indeed,  all  the  advantages  which  Balbi's  work  could  supply;  but  it 
has  also  the  additional  ones  of  more  recent  dates  and  facts,  and  a  fuller  and 
more  accurate  notice  of  our  own  country.  It  has  also  the  merit  of  an  arrange 
ment  at  once  new,  philosophic,  and,  to  the  American  reader,  more  acceptable 
than  that  of  the  European  geographies. 


VALUABLE    SCHOOL    BOOKS    PUBLISHED 


ALGEBRA 

BAILEY'S  FIRST  LESSONS  IN  ALGEBRA.— Although 
this  work  has  been  before  the  public  but  little  more  than  a  year, 
several  editions  have  already  been  called  for ;  and  it  has  been 
very  extensively  introduced  into  academies  and  schools  in  various 
parts  of  the  country.  From  a  great  number  of  notices  and  rec 
ommendations  of  the  work  in  their  possession,  the  publishers 
select  the  following : — 

From  Teachers  in  Boston  Public  Schools. 

We  have  used  "  Bailey's  First  Lessons  in  Algebra,"  in  the  Public  Writing- 
Schools  of  Boston,  respectively  committed  to  our  instruction,  and  can  testify 
with  confidence  to  its  high  value.  The  peculiar  excellence  of  the  work  con 
sists  in  its  serving  not  only  as  a  text-book,  but  in  a  great  measure  as  a  teacher. 
The  plainness,  simplicity,  and  fulness  with  which  the  subject  is  treated,  ena 
ble  the  scholar  to  proceed  in  the  exercises  understandingly,  with  little  or  no 
aid,  other  than  that  which  is  to  be  found  on  the  pages  of  the  book. 

P.  MACKINTOSH,  JR.,  OTIS  PIERCE, 

JAMES  ROBINSON,  ABEL  WHEELER. 

Boston,  November  25,  1834. 

From  Mr.  B.  Greenleaf,  Preceptor  of  Bradford  Academy. 
I  have,  with  much  attention  and  satisfaction,  examined  "  Bailey's  First 
Lessons  in  Algebra."  As  a  first  course  of  lessons  in  ..his  very  interesting 
science,  this  book,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say,  far  exceeds  any  other  that  I  have 
seen.  No  scholar  will  consider  Algebra  a  dry  study  while  attending  to  this 
system.  I  am  very  glad  to  find  that  Algebra  has  been  introduced  into  many 
of  our  town  schools;  and  am  positive  that  there  is  no  better  way,  to  make 
scholars  understand  Arithmetic  well,  than  that  they  should  devote  part  of 
their  time  to  the  study  of  Algebra.  I  most  cordially  recommend  the  work  to 
the  attention  of  School  Committees  and  Teachers. 

*#*  A  KEY,  in  a  separate  volume,  is  published  for  the  use  of 
Teachers. 


C^OOBRICH'S    UNITED    STATES. 

A  HISTORY  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMER 
ICA,  on  a  Plan  adapted  to  the  Capacity  of  Youth,  and  designed 
to  aid  the  Memory,  by  systematic  Arrangement  and  interesting 
Association.  By  CHARLES  A.  GOODRICH.  A  New  Stereotype 
Edition,  revised  and  enlarged  from  the  Forty-Fourth  Edition. 
Containing  General  Views  of  the  Aboriginal  Tribes;  Sketches  of 
the  Discoveries  and  Settlements  made  by  different  Nations ;  the 
Progress  of  the  Colonies  ;  the  Revolution;  the  several  Admin 
istrations.  The  whole  interspersed  with  Notices  of  the  different 
Eras  of  the  Progress  of  Manners,  Religion,  Commerce,  Agri 
culture,  Arts  and  Manufactures,  Population,  and  Education. 

GOODRICH'S  QUESTIONS  to  the  above. 

EMERSON'S  QUESTIONS.  QUESTIONS  AND  SUPPLEMENT 
TO  GOODRICH'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES. 

THE  CHILD'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES, 

designed  as  a  First  Book  of  Histoty  for  Schools,  illustrated  by 
numerms  Anecdotes  and  Engravings.  By  CHARLES  A.  GOOD 
RICH.  Seventh  Edition. 


BY    THE    AMERICAN    STATIONERS'    COMPANY. 


ASTROIVOMY. 

VOSE'S  ASTRONOMY.  A  Compendium  of  Astronomy; 
intended  to  simplify  and  illustrate  the  Principles  of  that  Science. 
Adapted  to  the  Use  of  Common  Schools,  as  well  as  higher  Sem 
inaries.  By  JOHN  VOSE,  A.  M.,  late  Principal  of  Pembroke 
Academy,  and  Author  of  a  larger  work  on  Astronomy. 

In  this  Compendium  of  Astronomy,  it  has  been  the  aim  of  the  author  to  ren 
der  the  principles  of  the  science  so  simple,  that  they  may  be  easily  under 
stood,  not  only  by  the  scholar  who  attends  a  few  weeks  at  an  academy,  but 
by  him  whose  means  and  views  do  not  carry  him  beyond  the  common 
schools. 

From  the  Annals  of  Education. 

It  (Vose's  Astronomy)  appears  to  have  been  prepared  with  care,  and  to 
deserve  confidence  for  its  accuracy.  *  *  *  The  spirit  of  the  writer  is  excel 
lent  ;  and  we  rejoice  to  see  that  our  elementary  books  of  natural  science 
have  begun  to  recognize  the  Great  First  Cause,  as  well  as  the  immediate 
second  causes  of  the  wonders  they  describe.  We  think  this  book  is  well 
adapted  to  high  schools. 

From  the  American  Traveller. 

We  are  pleased  to  meet  with  a  successful  attempt  to  simplify  the  principles 
of  Astronomy,  and  reduce  its  leading  features  to  the  understanding  of 
children. 

From  the  Boston  Galaxy. 

Mr.  Vose's  book  contains  a  simple  and  luminous  account  of  the  solar  sys 
tem,  and  of  most  of  the  celestial  phenomena.  It  is  well  written  and  arranged. 
The  definitions  are  copious  and  accurate.  He  has  made  the  principles  of  the 
science  easy  to  be  understood  ;  and  we  doubt  not  that  his  labors  will  be  use 
ful  to  many  besides  school-boys. 

From  Amasa  Bush.  High  School,  Norwich,   Vt. 

I  consider  the  Astronomy  by  John  Vose  to  be  the  most  lucid  compend  I 
have  ever  seen  on  that  science.  I  have  introduced  it  into  my  school  in 
preference  to  any  other. 

From  Benjamin  Greenleaf,  Bradford  Academy. 

I  have  attentively  examined  Vose's  Astronomy.  The  work  is  well  ar 
ranged,  clear,  and  perspicuous.  The  scholar  will  find  little  or  no  difficulty 
in  understanding  the  illustrations.  I  have  seen  no  work  on  this  science,  of 
the  same  extent,  which  I  consider  so  valuable. 

FIRST  LESSONS  IN  ASTRONOMY;  designed  for 
Common  Schools,  illustrated  with  Cuts.  By  SAMUEL  WORCES 
TER.  New  revised  and  enlarged  Stereotype  Edition. 

This  work  is  written  in  an  easy  and  familiar  style,  and  will  be  found  use 
ful  in  every  school  in  leading  the  pupils  on  in  the  first  steps  to  one  of  the  most 
interesting  of  the  sciences,  and  one  which  has  heretofore  been  too  much  neg 
lected.  It  is  believed  that  this  work  contains  nothing  but  what  quite  young 
children  can  comprehend  5  and  yet  it  contains  the  essential  rudiments  of  this 
study,  than  which  there  is  not  one  better  calculated  to  expand  and  ennoble 
the  youthful  mind.  The  science  of  Astronomy  seems  not  to  have  been  here 
tofore  so  far  divested  of  its  more  difficult  parts,  as  to  be  adapted  to  our  com 
mon  schools  ;  and  therefore  our  children  grow  up  in  ignorance  of  much  valu 
able  and  interesting  truth  relating  to  this  subject,  which  they  are  capable  of 
receiving. 


VALUABLE  SCHOOL  BOOKS. 


BAKEWELL'S    PHILOSOPHY. 

PHILOSOPHICAL  CONVERSATIONS  5  in  which  are  familiarly 
explained  the  Causes  of  many  daily-occurring  Natural  Phenomena.  By 
FREDERICK  C.  BAKEWELL — With  Notes  and  Questions  for  Review.  By 
EBENEZER  BAILEY. 

"  This  work  is  composed  of  philosophical  conversations,  in  which  are  familiarly 
explained  the  causes  of  many  daily-occurring  natural  phenomena;  edited  by  Mr. 
Bailey,  who  has  added  notes  and  questions  for  review.  From  an  examination  of  this 
useful  book,  we  should  think  it  better  adapted  to  the  capacity  of  youthful  learners, 
th.-ui  other  familiarizing  essays  of  the  kind  which  have  fallen  under  our  notice.  The 
conversational  style  is  pleasing,  and  matter  conveyed  in  this  way  becomes  most  accu- 
ralely  impressed  on  the  minds  of  learners.  It  is  difficult  to  make  children  interested 
in  natural  science  ;  and  a  work  like  this,  which  renders  it  attractive,  and  which  is  at 
the  same  time  perfectly  correct,  should  be  unhesitatingly  adopted  by  parents  and 
teachers."  Centinel  and  Palladium. 

''  We  have  taken  more  than  usual  pains  to  examine  this  book,  and  find  it  worthy 
of  nil  commendation.  The  explanations  of  natural  phenomena  are  given  in  a  dialogue 
so  spirited  and  lively,  and  the  methods  of  illustration  are  so  happily  adapted  to  the 
capacity  and  tastes  of  young  persons,  that  we  should  think  a  boy  beginning  to  peruse 
this:  book  would  find  himself  almost  as  much  interested  in  it  as  in  Sandford  and  Mer- 
ton  or  the  History  of  Robinson  Crusoe."  JVew  York  Evening  Post. 

"  In  these  Conversations  many  natural  phenomena  of  daily  occurrence  are  explained 
in  a  manner  highly  useful  and  instructive  Co  the  juvenile  mfnd.  It  is  exceedingly  well 
adapted  to  schools  and  private  families."  JVcw  York  Albion. 

f<  Bakewell's  delightful  Conversations  have  been  much  improved  by  the  judicious 
ado  )tion  of  questions  for  review,  which  must  greatly  facilitate  the  study  of  this  inter 
esting  and  much  approved  work."  The  Knickerbocker. 

"  Bakewell  has  succeeded  in  producing  a  work  filled  with  so  many  interesting 
descriptions  and  experiments,  that  the  favorable  opinion  of  the  young  reader  will 
speedily  be  enlisted  in  its  favor.  Every  thing  tliat  has  puzzled  his  inexperienced 
min  I,  from  the  falling  of  snow,  or  the  use  of  the  thermometer,  to  the  generation  of 
steain,  or  the  refraction  of  light,  is  explained  in  so  peispicuous  a  manner,  that  he 
cam  ot  fail  to  go  along  with  his  author.  The  conversational  style  which  has  been 
adoi  ted,  and  tire  employment  of  numerous  diagrams  to  illustrate  the  text,  also  greatly 
aasb  t  in  facilitating  the  communication  of  the  writer's  ideas." — Montreal  Gazette. 

{£=?•  Numerous  recommendations  of  Bakewell's  Philosophy  have  been  received 
from  instructors,  which  we  have  not  room  to  insert  here. 


BECLAMATIOM. 

THE  JUVENILE  SPEAKER,  comprising  a  Collection  of  Pieces, 
original  and  selected,  from  various  Authors,  adapted  to  the  Capacities  of 
Chil  Iren  in  Common  Schools.  By  AN  INSTRUCTOR. 


CLASSICAL    DICTIONARY. 

LV  MPRIERE'S  CLASSICAL  DICTIONARY,  for  Schools  and  Acad 
eme  ,  containing  every  Name,  and  all  that  is  important  or  useful,  in  the 
original  Work. 

£3  •  This  edition  contains  every  name  in  the  best  revised  edition  of  Lernpriere's 
original  work,  arid  all  the  matter  that  is  useful  or  important  for  families  and  young  $ 
perso  is.  All  the  indelicate  passages  are  excluded,  that  render  it  improper  for  youth  \ 
of  eit  ler  sex  ;  and  the  work  is  so  arranged  as  to  make  it  the  best  fitted  for  schools  of  j 
any  it-  use.  As  there  are  several  editions  of  Lempnere  published  (all  more  expen-  j 
sive  t  -an  this),  care  should  be  taken  to  order  the  Boston  Improved  Edition. 


School    Committees, 

MERCHANTS,  and  COUNTRY  TRADERS  generally,  can  be 

suppli  ;d  with  SCHOOL  BOOKS  and  STATIONERY,  in  any  quantity,  on 

the  m  >st  accommodating-  terms,  by  addressing  their  orders  anu  references  to 

J.  B.  RUSSELL,  Agent  for  the  American  Stationers'  Company. 


